


Christmas Eve

by Caenea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And it's unapologetic, Arya/Gendry is kind of background flavour, Everyone is of age, F/M, Fluff, I swear I didn't mean it, Oh look now it's fluffy too, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Alternating, Petyr can't believe he got this lucky, Plenty of Stark family bonding too, Romance, Sansa's thirsty, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, creepyship, flirtations, texting fails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-01 09:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 46,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: Sansa has a texting fail, when she inadvertently messages her mother’s colleague Petyr Baelish instead of Margaery Tyrell. The problem is that she hasn’t accidentally confirmed dinner plans, or asked him to meet her for cocktails or tried to discuss work with him. No – she’s sent him a very explicit, very private message, which unfortunately names him as the subject. This would probably be fine – mortifying, but fine – if Petyr was a good man and either ignored it or dismissed it. However, Petyr Baelish is not a good man, and seizes the opportunity to declare his intentions of getting Sansa Stark into his bed. To make the whole situation worse, Christmas is coming, and Catelyn has come over all charitable: she’s invited her colleague to Christmas Eve at the Stark’s so he isn’t all alone at Christmas. Sansa is considering joining the Peace Corps, Margaery thinks the whole thing is hilarious, Catelyn is oblivious and Petyr is thoroughly enjoying himself. The question must remain: What DO you do when you text your crush telling him about your crush??





	1. Sansa I

_Sansa has a texting fail, when she inadvertently messages her mother’s colleague Petyr Baelish instead of Margaery Tyrell. The problem is that she hasn’t accidentally confirmed dinner plans, or asked him to meet her for cocktails or tried to discuss work with him. No – she’s sent him a very explicit, very private message, which unfortunately names him as the subject. This would probably be fine – mortifying, but fine – if Petyr was a good man and either ignored it or dismissed it. However, Petyr Baelish is not a good man, and seizes the opportunity to declare his intentions of getting Sansa Stark into his bed. To make the whole situation worse, Christmas is coming, and Catelyn has come over all charitable: she’s invited her colleague to Christmas Eve at the Stark’s so he isn’t all alone at Christmas. Sansa is considering joining the Peace Corps, Margaery thinks the whole thing is hilarious, Catelyn is oblivious and Petyr is thoroughly enjoying himself. The question must remain: What will happen on Christmas Eve?_

 

Sansa’s mobile rang in her hand, making her jump a little as the icon interrupted the message she was typing to Margaery about the vile homework their English teacher had set them. She frowned down at the unfamiliar number.

                “Hello?” she queried, raising it to her ear.

                “Hello, Sansa?”

                “Er – yes, who is this please?” she asked, frowning. The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

                “It’s Petyr,” the voice answered, and her brain engaged with the rest of her. She felt the blush starting on her cheeks, and cursed her complexion – why did she have to be a redhead with such pale skin? She blushed so damn easily. At least, that was her excuse and she was sticking to it. “I’m sorry to bother you, your mother left me your phone number as an emergency contact.”

                “Is something wrong?” Sansa asked, immediately alert.

                “No, no,” Petyr answered, hastening to reassure her. “Not at all. Are you at home, by any chance?”

                “Yes, why?”

                “Is your mother there? Only she’s left her mobile here, at the office, and I thought she’d like to know.”

                “Ah. I can let her know,” Sansa said, swinging her legs off her bed and pattering over to the door. “Or would you like to speak to her yourself?”

                “I’ll speak to her, if I may. There are one or two things I need to ask her.”            

                “Hang on,” Sansa said, clattering noisily down the stairs. “Mum!”

                “Kitchen!” came the answer.

                “Mum, it’s Mr Baelish,” Sansa explained, holding out her mobile. “He says you left your phone at the office and he wants to talk to you.” Her mother tutted, drying her hands and reaching for the phone Sansa was offering. “Shall I finish the potatoes?” she asked, and Catelyn nodded.              

                “Please, darling. Petyr, hello. No I was not talking to you, you awful man. I was talking to Sansa. Honestly, I hadn’t even noticed I’d left it there, so thank you for phoning. Sansa said you needed something?” There was a silence as Catelyn listened to whatever it was Petyr had to say. Sansa started peeling the small mountain of potatoes that her mother required to make mashed potato for one husband, Sansa, and three very active younger siblings. The saucepan could be used to sledge in, and indeed had been, when Bran and Rickon were very small. “Oh no, Petyr! Oh, for heaven’s sake. I can come back to the office? Are you sure? Alright then – but only if it’s on your way,” she warned. “I’ll see you in about an hour. Thank you!” She clicked off the call and offered Sansa her phone back.

                “I’ll just finish these potatoes for you, Mum,” Sansa said. “Just whack it on the table for now.”

                “Thank you, my darling. How was college today?”

                “Fine. It’s my easy day, so I only had the one class,” Sansa answered. “I stayed in the library and caught up with my homework, then Margaery and I went out for coffee.”

                “When do you break up again?” Catelyn asked, pulling a huge mixing bowl of marinated steak, onions and peppers from the fridge. “You’re all finishing at different times this year, I can’t think what happened.”

                “I finish Thursday. College doesn’t officially finish until Friday but I don’t have any classes.”

                “Ah yes. Do you think on Friday you could drive to the train station? Robb and Jon both arrive then. Fortunately, they’ve managed to actually plan this year, so they’re on the same train.”

                “Of course,” Sansa said.

                “I would do it myself, but Petyr just dropped some rather bad news on me.”

                “What’s happened?” Sansa asked. Once her A-Levels were completed, she intended to go to university to study law, planning to join her mother’s practise once she’d graduated.           

                “Oh, an old client has reoffended. The hard part comes in when you consider his probation is over now, so it’s all considered a brand new case. I’ll have to go in now.”

                “Ah. It’s fine, I hadn’t any plans. What sort of time?”

                “They said they were due in at three-thirty. I’ll let them know it’s you coming to collect them, so if they will be late they can text you about it directly.”

 

The front door crashed open then, and the house was suddenly full of noise as Arya tumbled into the hallway, followed closely by Bran and Rickon. Bringing up the rear, clutching a briefcase and smiling indulgently as his children as they bickered, was Ned Stark. Catelyn raised her voice to be heard above the babble.

                “Alright, alright! Don’t just drop your bags anywhere – take them through to the utility room and sort them out. Showers, please, all of you. Hello darling.”

                “Hello,” her father said, putting his case on the table and kissing his wife. “I found these three ragamuffins running around the park so I rounded them up for you. Where’s my redheaded ragamuffin?”

                “Hi Dad,” Sansa shouting from the kitchen. “I’m peeling potatoes.” She finished the last and dropped it into the pan with the others.

                “Thank you, darling,” Catelyn said. “I can manage now, if you want to go back upstairs for a while before dinner.” Sansa nodded. She paused to kiss her father in greeting, before she ran back up to her room and shut the door. She checked her phone again, to find three unanswered texts from Margaery and two from Petyr.

 

_Margaery: I know, it was horrific. Mine is all bull, no knowledge. Varys will actually string me up._

_Margaery: Hello? Your lack of sympathy for my imminent death is touching._

_Margaery: Ooo, have we been distracted, perhaps? Masturbating again, maybe?_

_[Unsaved Number]: Thank you again for acting as liaison between your mother and I. I apologise for disturbing you. I hope I didn’t interrupt you in the middle of anything important._

_[Unsaved Number]: Also, I’ve told you a hundred times – please call me Petyr. Mr Baelish makes me feel ancient._

Sansa smiled at the messages, responding to Margaery first.

 

_Sansa: Don’t be so dramatic. He’s never even raised his voice. And no, Petyr Baelish called me._

She backed out, returning to the messages from Petyr.

 

_Sansa: It’s not a problem, I’m happy to help. I shall try and remember to call you Petyr. But you shouldn’t worry – you’re hardly describable as ancient._

 

Sansa locked her phone and dropped it onto her bed, returning to her book. Five minutes later, Margaery’s name flashed back up on her screen, and Sansa could read it without needing to open it.

 

_Margaery: Ah yes, the font of all your filthy fantasies. Why’s he phoning you?_

Sansa rolled her eyes and thought she would always regret confiding her ill-advised crush on Petyr to Margaery over a bottle of Southern Comfort during a girly evening. She unlocked her phone and started typing.

 

_Sansa: Listen, Tyrell, just because I want to hop on that dick and ride it until he begs, doesn’t mean I will. Petyr works with my mother, in case you had forgotten. It would be utterly inappropriate._

She hit send, and suddenly her heart dropped through the floor. At the top of her screen was the incriminatingly blank picture icon – and the words _Unsaved Number_. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She hadn’t. She _had._ It was glaring at her, bright blue and glaring and underneath it – _Read 18/12/17 17.55._

 

She could have screamed, she could have vomited, she could have cried. She stared at her phone in mute horror, even as the three “typing” dots appeared. She made a strangled sound, backing out of the app as fast as she could. She pulled her contacts up and dialled Margaery.

                “Hey, what’s –“

                “Margaery,” Sansa said, desperation and humiliation coating her voice, “I’ve done something _awful._ ”

                “Ooo, really? What?”

                “This is serious!” Sansa cried. “I’ve sent a text message to the _person it was about._ ”

                “Well, I don’t see –“

                “It was a reply to your message about Petyr Baelish!” Sansa nearly shrieked, cutting Margaery off. “And it was – it was – well let’s just say it wasn’t telling you to fuck off!” On the other end of the phone, Sansa heard Margaery rustling around. She could picture her friend sitting up in interest.

                “Well, for God’s sake, what did it say?” Margaery demanded. Sansa closed her eyes in humiliation, even as her phone buzzed to tell her she had a new message.

                “I said I wanted to hop on that dick and ride it until he begged,” she confessed. There were two seconds of silence before Margaery made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Don’t you dare laugh! Because it gets worse, I then went on to mention his name and say he worked with my mother. I have literally no deniability. I have to leave the country, right now. Preferably the planet. Are NASA any closer to shooting off to Mars? I’ll go there. Oh God, my phone’s vibrated, I think he’s replied. Margaery, what the hell do I _do_?”

 

The only reply she got was wild, hysterical laughter.

 

 

 

 


	2. Petyr I

There are a number of things a man should do when he receives a sexually explicit text message from his friend and colleague’s 18 year old daughter, especially when said text message features him in a starring role. Replying to it is not one of them. Getting aroused is not one of them. Smirking and feeling gleeful is also a no-no. Considering it one’s lucky day is probably also off the table.

 

She still hadn’t read the reply. Perhaps she hadn’t realised what she’d done just yet. No, she must have known almost at once, surely. His heart had done a disbelieving bump when he first saw the message, then a joyous leap when he’d realised he would be in the same house as her – in all likelihood _seeing_ her – in less than an hour when he dropped off Catelyn’s mobile and the files she’d asked for. Would it arouse suspicion if he brought Catelyn thank you flowers? He was certainly inclined to bless whatever imp of mischief that had caused the normally-careful woman to do something as silly as forgetting her mobile. What a joy this had turned out to be.

 

He’d taken a few moments in the office bathroom to comb his hair again, to brush his teeth and reapply some cologne. Even though he fully expected her to hide in her bedroom for the duration of his visit, he preferred not to take any chances. He got out of his car and surveyed the Stark residence. It was a rather old-fashioned converted Victorian farmhouse, made of grey stone and wooden beams and he’d always privately thought it looked rather cold. Now it looked like the gates to Heaven itself, if Heaven was an 18 year old red-head with an attraction to him. He wondered if the lit window on the top floor was hers, and if she had hidden away. He did hope not. He knocked at the door in a manner that could be described as jaunty.

 

To his surprise, it was Sansa who answered the door. She was looking very firmly at her feet, her long red hair hanging down either side of her face. Despite that, he could see the rich red blush coating her cheeks, and he restrained a smirk with intense difficulty.

                “Come in,” she mumbled. Oh, she was definitely fully aware of what she’d done. “Mum’s in the kitchen,” she elaborated, as he stepped inside. Before he could speak, she raised her voice. “Mum! Mr Baelish is here!” So he was still Mr Baelish, was he? Catelyn put her head out of a door off to the left, and smiled at him.

                “Petyr, thank you for coming by. Would you perhaps like to join us for dinner?” she asked. “There’s plenty.” He couldn’t help but notice that Sansa had vanished into thin air, even as he accepted the offer.

 

A small part of his brain told him he was being cruel, even as Catelyn showed him into the living room and Ned offered him a drink. He took a seat at the table, and it filled up around him as the three younger Stark children barrelled into the room and claimed chairs. Ned sat at the head, and Petyr noticed with a little thrill that Sansa would be forced to sit beside him if Catelyn took the other single seat at the opposite end to her husband, as Arya, Bran and Rickon had all sat together. Catelyn was bringing in dishes, and frowned at the empty seat.

                “Where did Sansa go? Ned, will you come through and carry the plates in? Petyr, serve yourself before the swarm descends.” He could hear Catelyn calling up the stairs, before very reluctant footsteps reached his ears and Sansa trailed into the room. She looked a mix of livid and anguished when she realised the seating arrangement, before she took her seat beside it. She perched on the very edge of her chair as if she was prepared to bolt. Petyr served himself from the dishes, and Sansa waited until the very last moment before she too put a small amount on her plate. He wondered if she always ate so sparingly or if she simply intended to end the meal as soon as possible.

 

Conversation seemed to be rather lacking, Petyr noticed, and wondered if it was his presence causing the silence. At least on the older members of the family’s side anyway, as it appeared that the younger ones were more preoccupied with eating than talking. It was Catelyn who broke the silence, by addressing Ned.

                “Darling, I’ve asked Sansa to meet Jon and Robb from the train station on Friday. Petyr brought me some files tonight, regarding a new case – I’ll have to work on Friday.” Ned nodded, swallowing his mouthful before he answered.

                “Alright. Will you be late?”

                “Oh no, I don’t think so. I may even be home in time to go to the station myself but it’s best not to take chances. It shouldn’t take too long, should it, Petyr?”

                “I doubt it. He’s an old client, after all. He’s almost certainly guilty.” Arya piped up then.

                “Is it a murder?” she asked, almost eagerly.

                “Arya Stark!” Catelyn reproved. “Don’t be so bloodthirsty. And anyway, there is such a thing as client confidentiality.”

                “Well, you brought it up,” Arya muttered rebelliously, although she subsided when her father addressed her warningly.

                “Sansa,” Catelyn said, turning to her eldest daughter once she was sure the younger had been sufficiently subdued. “You’ve been very quiet tonight darling, are you alright?” Beside him, Sansa shifted in her seat. He wondered if she’d intended to move closer to him.

                “I’m fine,” she murmured in reply to her mother. “Just – just a little tired.”

                “Sansa’s been yelling at Margaery,” Rickon said helpfully. “I heard her.” Sansa went a fiery scarlet and glared at her little brother.

                “Yelling at Margaery?” Catelyn said, puzzled.

                “I was not yelling at her,” Sansa ground out. “She was just – we were just – talking.”

                “How is Margaery?” Ned chimed in then. “You haven’t had a falling out, have you?”

                “She’s fine,” Sansa said. “We were just disagreeing about some gossip.” Petyr had an idea he knew why Sansa had been yelling at her friend. “And we haven’t had a falling out, Dad, we’re not _ten_.” Ned held his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender.

 

Conversation continued to languish after that, and Petyr watched Sansa out of the corner of his eye. She was meticulously cutting her food into small bites, but seemed to actually be eating very little. Her hair hung down in a positive waterfall of copper, and Petyr found himself wondering what it would feel like if he ran his fingers through it, if it would be as soft and silky as it looked.

 

There was a quiet thought in his mind that he should not be wondering what Sansa’s hair would feel like in his fists while he ate dinner with her family. Ned would probably stab him with his steak knife if he had any idea what was going through Petyr’s head as he adjusted his position. He widened his stance until he felt his knee come into contact with hers. It was electric. He felt the buzz of touch before he felt her. Beside him, Sansa did not react at all, apart from a deepening of the light pink in her cheeks. For a brief moment, she pressed back – before she moved her knee away. He did not pursue it. There were more subtle ways to pursue a woman. And the fact that she’d pressed back, however fleetingly, told Petyr that her interest was there, despite her embarrassment.

 

The meal finished without further incident, whereupon Sansa murmured something to her mother and vanished. When Ned asked, sparing Petyr from having to make discreet enquiries, Catelyn merely said she wasn’t feeling well and had gone to have a bath and an early night. Petyr felt that remaining in the same house as a naked, bathing Sansa was asking for trouble, and remained long enough to be polite before thanking Catelyn for dinner and making his excuses.

 

In the car, he checked his mobile. Sansa had not only read his reply, she had responded to it – only minutes ago. Grinning, he read through the messages again.

 

_Sansa: Listen, Tyrell, just because I want to hop on that dick and ride it until he begs, doesn’t mean I will. Petyr works with my mother, in case you had forgotten. It would be utterly inappropriate._

 

_Petyr: Why, Miss Stark – how flattering. I was clearly not the intended recipient of this message, so I feel safe in assuming it had a context I am not privy to. I am curious to know what message could have prompted such an impassioned response from you, however?_

_Sansa: You were never meant to know that. Please can we agree never to discuss this? I am beyond embarrassed. I’ve obviously lost all deniability but I fully understand you are my mother’s work colleague. You don’t have to be kind or worse, sympathetic. We can just ignore it._

Oh, so she was thinking he was going to build up to some kind of “I’m terribly flattered but far too old for you, you should find a nice boy your own age” let-down. How terribly, terribly wrong she was. Sansa Stark deserved more than a fumbling, bumbling boy trying to please her. He decided to drive home before he messaged her again. He might get too distracted if she started texting him during his drive.

 

Once home, he poured himself a scotch. Hard liquor was rumoured to give one courage, after all – and if ever a man needed courage, it was before he began a seduction of a smart, beautiful, younger woman who had inadvertently told them she wanted to have wild, impassioned sex with them. Although perhaps Sansa was the one who could use the Dutch courage – she’d looked like a deer in headlights when she’d answered the door to him, the poor woman. He pulled up the so far brief text message history between them and slowly, started typing his reply. It would be tricky to strike a balance between convincing her he didn’t intend to “just ignore it” and frightening her off by being too explicit.

 

_Petyr: No Sansa, you’ve misunderstood me. I honestly meant that it was incredibly flattering to receive your message, although I can see that you might have read it as polite condescension which was not my intention. And you have no need of embarrassment – there’s no shame in what you feel._

He sent the message. It was a surprisingly short amount of time before she replied, although when he saw the brevity, he was understood.

 

_Sansa: I don’t understand what you mean._

_Petyr: I mean that you shouldn’t apologise for your attraction to me. I have no objections to it. I find it interesting. Tell me, Sansa – what is it you find so attractive about me?_

The dots alerted him to her immediately typing a response. He shifted in his chair. He had a vague thought that desperately awaiting her to text him back was almost pathetically juvenile. To assuage the feeling, he took a good mouthful of his scotch.

 

_Sansa: What, so you can come back to it when you need a good laugh or an ego boost at the expense of the pathetic kid who’s crushing on you? I don’t think so. Please, can we just not discuss it ever again? I’m fairly sure I’ve already suffered enough humiliation tonight._

He cursed, straightening up as he typed. He thought about just phoning her, but assumed she simply would not answer. The trouble was, he had to put this in such a way as to convince her that he was serious, but still keep some of his cards close to his chest. It was far too early in the game to show his hand, and Petyr Baelish was nothing if he wasn’t careful. So was Sansa, apparently – he admired her refusal to be drawn into his games, and her self-defence mechanisms. She was no fool, that was apparent. She might be ‘crushing hard’, or whatever it was the kids said these days, but she was also savvy about it. Despite the necessity to convince her that he didn’t seek to humiliate or embarrass her, he felt a smile curve his lips. He had always so loved a challenge.

 

_Petyr: Sansa, no. I’m not trying to embarrass you or humiliate you. I’m simply curious – what could a clever, beautiful young woman see in an ancient husk like myself?_

She didn’t reply, although the read receipt came up below the message. It was nearly an hour before a response came through, and it lit a little warmth inside him.

 

_Sansa: You’re not an ancient husk. Stop fishing for compliments. I am not going to massage your ego by listing the reasons I may or may not have for finding you attractive. Goodnight, Petyr._

So she was going to play the game, at least – and she had called him Petyr. Well then, the challenge was set and he would relish every second of it. It was time to seduce Sansa Stark.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every three or four days on this one I think!
> 
> Please enjoy - and feedback, whether positive or constructively negative, is always always welcome and gratefully received!


	3. Sansa II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling generous... so here are two more chapters!

Sansa had wanted to die when Petyr had not only turned up on her doorstep, but had then proceeded to stay for dinner. Sitting beside her, no less – although that was partly her fault. If she’d taken her seat earlier she could have chosen not to sit beside him. When his knee had touched hers beneath the table, she had felt her entire body jolt with electricity. She couldn’t help herself, she’d pressed back before she pulled away before cursing inwardly.

 

Somehow or other, she’d made it through dinner before she muttered some lame excuse about a headache to her mother and retreated upstairs. She’d been running her bath before she’d finally found the courage to read Petyr’s reply. As expected, it had been very kind, a little teasing to it but kind. Of course it was. What had she expected? A hearty invitation?

 

She’d managed the courage to not only text him back, but to tell him where he got off when he asked why she was attracted to him. But it was strange – his reply to that could almost have been described as _flirty_. Almost.

 

Once in bed, and once her mother had checked on her to make sure she wasn’t feeling too bad, Sansa found herself dwelling on his message. _What is it you find so attractive about me?_ What indeed? He was no model, certainly. Nothing like Joffrey, her first humiliating crush on an older boy when she was silly enough to fall in love based on looks alone. But Sansa had found she liked Petyr’s face – his cheekbones, the goatee he kept so carefully groomed, the grey-green eyes that flashed with amusement long before he smiled. He looked strong too, in his immaculately pressed, well-cut suits. As she’d come to know him better, she’d realised he was very clever too – her mother was wont to vow that he was the greatest prosecution lawyer in the city, if not the country. His conviction rate was 99% and he once told her that the one who got away with it was actually innocent. She had wanted to learn from him since she was fourteen and decided on becoming a lawyer. If she ever went into the office, Petyr would joke that she was clearly there to spy and steal his job. He let her argue with him, would always let her make her points before tearing a huge hole in her argument – however carefully she’d crafted it. But every time, she learnt something. She learnt how to keep her face blank, regardless of how much he’d shocked her with a new fact or a side she hadn’t considered.

 

She admired how he’d built himself up too – nobody had handed him a damn thing in his entire life. Everything he had, he’d worked hard for. He’d started his career as an office boy in a solicitors office – filing paperwork and shredding documents. He’d paid for law school by working 60 hour weeks in two jobs, before joining a public defender’s office as a junior associate. He’d spent five years passing the lawyer paperwork in the courtroom and running errands before they’d trusted him with a case. He’d made the move to prosecution lawyer by starting at the bottom all over again. From there, he’d got his head down, observed and learnt and saved every single penny he could. Three years later, a man with his own money, a designer suit and a conviction record that was staggeringly good had contacted his childhood friend Catelyn and gone into practise as Stark & Baelish. The company had gone from strength to strength and now, six years later, Petyr Baelish was forty-six and indescribably wealthy. Sansa considered him a role model for what hard work could get a man.

 

Oh, he’d undercut people, stabbed a few others in the back. Her father hadn’t held back when Catelyn had agreed to throw her money and her reputation behind Baelish. There were whispers about a junior associate Petyr had been in contest with for a junior partner position – a rumour that he had intentionally found a concealed mistake that had resulted in a murderer going free and had exposed it. However, Sansa didn’t necessarily consider that the crime her father did. Had the mistake not been concealed, Petyr wouldn’t have been able to use it. Exploiting a weakness was hardly framing someone for murder, after all.

 

She had to wonder how long all that would have taken to type into a text message – and even if she had, he could have dismissed the whole thing as hero-worship. But she was attracted to him, she wanted to get his immaculate suits off and see what he kept so hidden. She wanted to see how riled up he would need to be before the control cracked. She wanted to see how far he could be pushed before he ceased to be a gentleman and sought only pleasure. She wanted to see the pressed, groomed and poised Petyr Baelish dishevelled and with kiss-swollen lips, tousled hair and crumpled shirt.

 

She slept badly that night, perhaps understandably. Vaguely remembered dreams only added to her agitation as she found herself chaotically late and disorganised, rushing round the house like a mad thing as she hunted for her shoes and her completed homework, before finding both in her room. She’d been so late leaving that she’d had to sprint for the bus, something she hadn’t experienced before. When Margaery got on two stops later, she raised her eyebrows.

                “Good Gods, what the hell has happened to you?” her best friend demanded, dropping into the seat beside her.

                “Overslept,” Sansa answered.

                “Did we?” There was a knowing little tone in Margaery’s voice that Sansa did not like. “And would this be to do with your _epic_ texting failure last night?”

                “Oh, it gets worse than that,” Sansa said, before recounting the events of the night to Margaery. When she’d finished, and shown her friend the messages from Petyr, Margaery sat back in her seat with an exaggerated look of exhaustion.

                “Wow, that is a – that’s a hell of a saga. But honestly, Sansa, I don’t think you’ve anything to be all that embarrassed about. He is clearly interested.”

                “Rubbish,” Sansa answered forcefully. “He’s just trying to be nice about it, to stop me wanting to drown myself.”

                “ _Please_. Gods, Sansa, for such a smart girl you can be almost impressively dim at times.” Sansa followed Margaery off the bus, still protesting.

                “He is not interested. He probably thinks it’s kind of flattering, and maybe he even thinks it’s hot, but he’ll feel exactly the same about it as any other forty-odd year old.”

                “So? Even if he does, who cares? Would you shag him, if the opportunity came up?”

                “Margaery!” Sansa cried, her cheeks heating up despite the bitter chill in the air.

                “Would you?” her friend persisted.

                “I – I – it doesn’t matter because the opportunity won’t come up!”

                “It will, and when it does, you can buy me an apology latte. I’m just saying, maybe it’s just purely sexual chemistry. Maybe if you shag, it’ll be out of both your systems. You’ll both get a nice little confidence boost and you’ll both be able to move on. You’ve been het up over him for what, a year now? A fuck would probably get it all out your system.”

 

That was something to think about. When they reached college, Margaery went off to a class in Fashion, and Sansa betook herself to a study nook in the sixth form common room. Her phone vibrated as she was going over her notes from her last law lesson, getting ready for that day’s class. She gave it a cursory glance as the screen lit up, intending to ignore the message until she’d finished. The name and the preview gave her pause, her hand reaching out almost automatically before she pulled it back. He could wait, she told herself firmly. Anyone else messaging her would have had to wait until she’d finished her notes. She was under no obligation to reply at once, and anyway she was busy – she was trying to sketch out questions and scenarios for the class. He could wait, she repeated to herself firmly, before she turned her phone screen-down and turned back to her work.

 

She considered it an achievement when the bell rang and she still had not checked or answered the message. Still, there was projecting a casual air, wanting him to know she wouldn’t jump at every click of his fingers and being rude, so she read it on the way to class.

 

_Petyr: Good morning, Sansa. Tell me, would you be interested in making a deal with me? Information in exchange for information?_

She snorted to herself. He must think she’d come down in the last shower.

 

_Sansa: That would depend, Mr Baelish. What are your terms? Information should only be exchanged if the other party has information of equal or greater value. I believe it was you who told me that._

He didn’t answer her until nearly lunchtime, and Sansa found she was grateful for it. Concentration might have been tricky if her phone had started alerting her to messages during class. But as it happened, she was alone in the library when it went off again.

 

_Petyr: You’re a very wise young woman. Never enter into a game without knowing the rules first. Very well, Sansa, here are my terms: I ask you a question, ask for some information about you that I want to know. You may choose whether or not to answer it, but should you choose to answer it, I will answer the question myself. For example, if I asked you what your favourite film was, and you answered that it was Pulp Fiction, I would tell you that my favourite film is The Blair Witch Project. Do we have a deal, Sansa?_

_Sansa: I know you cheat at games, Mr Baelish. How do I know you won’t cheat me by refusing to answer once you have my answer? How about you tell me your answer when you ask the question?_

_Petyr: You’d have an unfair advantage._

_Sansa: Think of it as a challenge. I know how you love challenges._

_Petyr: Oh I do, Sansa, I do. Very well, I accept your entirely unfair terms. What actually is your favourite film? As per a previous message, mine is the Blair Witch Project._

_Sansa: I wouldn’t have pegged you as a found-footage horror fan. I would have expected you to be a Welles or Howard Hawks man. It’s Kingdom of Heaven at the moment, but it is subject to change._

_Petyr: You know Howard Hawks?_

_Sansa: Dad’s a Scarface obsessive. And I quite like Bringing Up Baby._

_Petyr: You are full of surprises, Sansa. My second question, then – where are you and what are you doing? I’m at work, of course. I’m eating lunch._

_Sansa: I’m at college, in the library. I’m trying to sketch out an essay plan for Law. It’s about unconscionable practises._

_Petyr: Unconscionable practises? I can help – unconscionable practise is my specialty._

_Sansa: I’m sure it is, Mr Baelish. But I’m sure I can manage. For example, I’m fairly sure this entire conversation is an unconscionable practice, so I think you can tell I don’t lack experience or the skills to cope with it. I would apologise but someone once told me that you should always keep people confused, because if they do not know who you are or what you want, they cannot know what they’re likely to do next._

_Sansa: I’ll have to excuse myself. It’s our lunch break now and I’m going out for Subway with Margaery. It’s been a pleasure to play with you._


	4. Petyr II

_Sansa: I’m sure it is, Mr Baelish. But I’m sure I can manage. For example, I’m fairly sure this entire conversation is an unconscionable practice, so I think you can tell I don’t lack experience or the skills to cope with it. I would apologise but someone once told me that you should always keep people confused, because if they do not know who you are or what you want, they cannot know what they’re likely to do next._

_Sansa: I’ll have to excuse myself. It’s our lunch break now and I’m going out for Subway with Margaery. It’s been a pleasure to play with you._

 

Petyr sat back in his chair with a smile. Oh, but she was good. She was very, very good. She’d successfully negotiated her way into playing his game with every advantage stacked in her own favour, then flawlessly shut him down when he’d attempted flirting. He realised that if he had games in mind, so did she. He was pleased to see it after her denials of the previous night, when she’d been thinking he was trying to humiliate her. She was manipulating him with quite some skill and he had to admire it. She now had the upper hand, he realised – if he now messaged her first again, she would be left as the impartial party while he would look eager. She was clever, he had to admit it.

 

Although was that such a surprise? No. He’d always known she was clever. Catelyn was proud of her daughter, proud of her achievements and her grades. And when he’d first met her, when she was around fourteen or so, he’d noticed that she asked questions and stored up the information, sharp as a tack. He remembered her inquisitive blue eyes staring up at him as she quizzed him about his work. At sixteen, Catelyn had brought her to work during the Easter holidays, explaining to Petyr that as the local library was being refurbished, Sansa had needed a quiet place to study before her GCSE exams and with three very active younger siblings and two older ones, there was no peace at home. She had spent two weeks sitting in his meeting room, pouring over a parade of textbooks, with notepads, loose-leaf papers and a pencil case beside her. She had six different ring binders too, all in different colours. She’d obviously organised them by subject and as she revised and wrote and did calculations and answered practise questions he’d found out that she knew how to work and work well. He’d ventured into the meeting room once for a legal text he kept in there and she’d glanced up and smiled at him before returning to an algebra problem she’d been frowning over. He’d been struck then by how pretty she was, but he’d never looked at her sexually. She was just a child then.

 

He knew the exact moment she’d gone from pretty to desirable. She’d come by the office over the summer holidays to collect Catelyn while her car had been in for a repair and had been obliged to wait while her mother finished up. Somehow or other, she’d found her way into his office and had sat on the edge of his desk chatting while she waited. He still remembered the black jumper and jeans she’d been wearing, with wicked little heeled boots. The jumper was one of those odd one-shoulder deals, slouchy and loose, and the single creamy white shoulder it had exposed had got his blood up in such a fervour it had surprised him. She’d routinely worn less – or at least shown more skin – during the marathon revision sessions, but the unexpected chill of that day, despite it being September, had obviously required more clothing of her. But that single white shoulder had haunted his fucking dreams for weeks afterwards.

 

The afternoon passed slowly and he’d never checked his phone more frequently. Catelyn came in at around three, and smiled at him.

                “Can I borrow your copy of Blackstone’s Criminal Practise?”

                “On the shelf,” he answered, frowning over a file. She pulled it down and looked at him.

                “You alright?”

                “Yes. Just something in this case strikes me as odd.”

                “Most cases strike me as odd,” she answered, laughing. “Are you looking forward to Christmas?”

                “Oh yes. I’m spending it with Varys, as usual.”

                “What about Christmas Eve?”

                “I’ll probably just work.”

                “Petyr, you cannot work on Christmas Eve,” Catelyn said firmly. “You’ll be dead by fifty if you keep up that sort of nonsense. If you have no plans, why not come to us?”

                “You?” he said, finally looking up.

                “Yes. Sansa’s friend Margaery comes, Arya brings Gendry – who, by the way, is ‘not my boyfriend!’ – from her class at school, Bran and Rickon inevitably invite a friend or two, Robb and Jon will probably invite some old friends, Ned’s friend Robert comes.”

                “Who do you invite?” he enquired.

                “You, every year since we started working together,” she said, pointedly. He had the grace to offer her a sheepish smile. “Come, Petyr. The last few years, Sansa and Margaery have taken over the cooking and they always do a brilliant layout. Margaery sleeps over the night before and they’re locked in the kitchen from about nine in the morning, blasting the music and dancing. So, do you want to come?” Petyr had to think fast. On the one hand, that many people and that much madness sounded like a trial. On the other hand, Sansa would be there – and Christmas Eve would be a target for him. Could he seduce her by Christmas Eve, with today being the 19th?

                “Alright,” he said. “I’d love to come.” Catelyn’s face lit up.

                “Oh wonderful! Well, it’s a standing invitation from 2.00pm onwards. Casual dress, it is not a formal occasion by any means.”

                “Shall I bring anything?”

                “Bring a bottle.”

 

At about five that night, just as he was finishing up and thinking about going home, as Catelyn had done about half an hour before, his phone chimed.

 

_Sansa: I hear I have an extra mouth to feed Christmas Eve. Do you have any allergies? I wouldn’t want to inadvertently poison you._

_Petyr: I’m allergic to almonds, but nothing else. I hope that won’t affect you too much._

_Sansa: Not at all. If the packaging of anything says “may contain nuts”, should I avoid?_

_Petyr: No, I will be fine with trace amounts. If it specifies almonds, it should be avoided._

_Petyr: Thank you for checking, by the way. It’s very considerate of you._

_Sansa: It’s fine. I’m allergic to peanuts myself, and it’s incredibly irritating to arrive at a meal and find people either don’t know or there’s nothing I can eat at all. I always check as a result._

_Petyr: Do you have many allergies to cope with?_

_Sansa: Oh no. Me and Bran both can’t have peanuts but otherwise it’s just you!_

_Petyr: I suppose that isn’t too bad. Are you enjoying your evening?_

_Sansa: Yes thank you, Mr Baelish. I’ve just had a shower, it’s our sixth form Christmas Ball tonight._

He blinked at his phone. Why would she tell him she was just out of the shower? She must have known it would conjure up images of her naked. Unless that was her intention. His lips curved. This time, it wasn’t him who started steering the conversation away from innocent topics.

 

_Petyr: A Christmas Ball? What does that involve? Evening gowns and diamonds?_

_Sansa: Gods no. It depends really – there are girls who really dress up, girls who dress up by wearing as little as possible for a school function and girls who fall somewhere in the middle. The boys mostly wear a shirt and tie._

_Petyr: And which category do you fall into?_

_Sansa: Are you asking me what I’m wearing, Mr Baelish? Isn’t that rather familiar of you?_

_Petyr: Certainly not, Sansa. I was simply curious as to where on the scale you fell._

_Sansa: The third category. You can draw your own conclusions._

He packed up, still smiling. She was so very good at this, so much better than he’d expected of her. She was quite obviously interested, even without the huge signpost her first message had been. He suspected she was testing him more than he was testing her. She would want solid confirmation before she acted. He was determined not to lose the game with her. He would have her in his bed before Christmas, even if it was the last thing he did.

 

When he got home, he had a shower of his own before he made himself dinner. He wondered if Sansa would take it wrongly if he offered to make and bring some food. It sounded like she and her friend had it under control though, so perhaps it might be best to stick to Catelyn’s suggestion that he simply bring a bottle of wine. He wondered if Sansa would be drinking. She was legally allowed, after all. He wondered if she’d be drinking tonight.

 

He wondered what she was wearing.

 

He really felt like he should feel some guilt about wondering what his colleague’s daughter was wearing on a night out. He had a thought then, and went to his laptop. He pulled up his rarely used Facebook account – he’d only really got it so he could have a business page – and searched her name. She came up at the top, her distinctive red hair making her an obvious sight. She had an irritatingly private profile, however, and without being friends with her, he could only see a couple of posts and her profile and cover pictures. Her cover picture was a photograph of a cat and her profile picture a shot of her from a distance. She was on a swing, her head tipped back with all that long, long hair creating a waterfall of copper fire. He clicked his tongue impatiently before he closed the browser down.

 

He reopened it when he remembered the old fashioned way of finding people. He Googled her instead, telling himself as he did so that this was borderline stalking. Most of the results seemed to be unconnected to his Sansa, so he amended his terms to include “Winterfell” and to his surprise, an Instagram page came up. He clicked on it, and found that it was her page – pictures of red hair and coffee gave it away. And it wasn’t privatised either.

 

And there it was, posted less than half an hour ago, of her wearing a tight black dress, glossy black tights and some glittering silver shoes that matched the tinsel strands woven into her hair. Her arm was wrapped around the waist of a brunette girl who was wearing a plunging blue gown. Her hair matched Sansa’s. He grinned and pulled out his mobile.

 

_Petyr: You look beautiful. Tinsel hair suits you._

               


	5. Sansa III

_Petyr: You look beautiful. Tinsel hair suits you._

 

Sansa whipped her head round, searching the room. Once she was certain he hadn’t gatecrashed, she replied.

 

_Sansa: Impressive, Mr Baelish. Tell me, have you been following me for a long time? I need to know what to tell the police when I apply for a restraining order._

_Petyr: You really should privatise your social media. I’m looking at your Instagram._

She had to laugh at that. She’d never considered that he’d even know about Instagram, and had never bothered to restrict that nearly as much as her Facebook.

_Sansa: Naughty._

_Sansa: Do you like the dress?_

_Petyr: Very much so. You look wonderful. Are you having fun?_

_Sansa: Margaery snuck in a hip flask, so it isn’t as dire as it could be. Food is awful – how hard is it to get sausage rolls and cocktail sausages right? One of the teachers is quite clearly inebriated despite the blanket alcohol ban and trying to do the chicken dance. I think I might die of embarrassment on his behalf._

_Petyr: Sounds appalling._

Sansa smiled at her phone for all of three seconds before it was suddenly snatched from under her nose. Margaery grinned at her.

                “Who are you texting that’s making you grin like that? Ooo, Petyr, eh? He’s upgraded from _Mr Baelish_.”

                “Give it back,” Sansa said, half-seriously. Margaery held out the hip flask.

                “I shall not, but you can have a shot of this.” Sansa accepted the trade, and as Margaery scrolled through her phone, she sipped the rum casually. Margaery soon looked up, smirking like a cat who’d found all the catnip.

                “Well, you owe me a very big apology latte,” she said. “This is absolutely the conversation of two people who want to shag each other’s brains out.”

                “Shut up.” There was no heat in it at all and Margaery knew it.

                “Come with me,” she answered, and Sansa went along. She’d had just enough rum to make it seem like a good idea.

 

Margaery dragged her to the toilets, and into the accessible cubicle.

                “What are we doing?” Sansa enquired, even as Margaery threw her phone into her handbag and put it on the shelf behind the cistern.

                “Come here,” was the only answer she got. Margaery messed her hair up, reorganising the tinsel and fluffing it up slightly before she tugged Sansa’s dress at the waist, making the skirt drastically shorter, and tugging the neckline down. She dusted some more dark powder over her eyelids and instructed Sansa to re-do her lipstick. “Look sexy,” Margaery said, standing back with a critical air, then sighed when Sansa just stared at her. “We’re going to take a picture of you looking sexy and alluring and then we’re going to send it to him. Let him get a look at you.”        

                “Why? He knows what I look like.”

                “Not like this he doesn’t.”

                “I don’t know how to look sexy.”

                “Just do this,” Margaery said, parting her lips, ducking her chin and looking up through her eyelashes.

                “Wow, that was sexy.”

                “I know.” Sansa did her best and when she looked through the pictures, she had to admit that she did look sexy. Margaery’s make up skills had probably done 90% of it, but still. “Send it to him,” Margaery instructed.

                “And say what?”

                “Oh for – give me your phone.”

 

The second Margaery announced triumphantly that it was done; Sansa regretted it and snatched her phone back.

 

_Sansa: Hey Mr Baelish! Sansa’s looking fine tonight, don’t you think? She’s a gorgeous piece – I’d go there myself if she wasn’t straight. Hope it brightens up your evening. Love, Margaery Tyrell._

Sansa looked up in horror.

                “How could you!”

                “Oh, chill out baby girl,” Margaery answered. “Come on, Loras and Renly have smuggled in alcohol. Let’s go.”

 

At least alcohol would make her brave enough to read any reply she might get. At least alcohol might soften her absolute embarrassment over it all when he inevitably thought she was ridiculous. Loras and Renly both mocked them roundly for only thinking to bring a single hip flask before they condescended to share their stash with them, and only after making Sansa say that they were both cool and handsome. Sansa rolled her eyes, but her desire for hard alcohol outpaced her desire to not give in to blackmail, so she dutifully told them what they wanted to hear. It was decent stuff at least, good quality rum that didn’t burn when it was mixed in with the Diet Pepsi the bar provided. She had a funny feeling that the barman knew good and well they were topping up the drinks with something less innocent, given the inch or so of clear space they were leaving at the top of the glasses.

 

It was barely nine before Margaery was bored witless by the party and Sansa wasn’t far behind her. It wasn’t long after that that they both decided it was time to excuse themselves and found a decent pub to drink openly in. It was only when they were on the second bottle of wine together that Margaery asked about Petyr, and whether he’d replied.

                “I haven’t checked,” Sansa answered. “I was too busy soothing Loras and Renly’s egos to get us rum. Your brother really is an appalling flirt when you consider that what’s between my legs holds absolutely no attraction for him.”              
                “I know, he’s like all the Tyrell’s – a shameless whore.”

                “You take all the prizes there,” Sansa shot back. “I saw you sneak off with that barman.”

                “Oh but he was so beautiful,” Margaery answered. “Now, stop making excuses. You check your phone or I shall.” Sansa rolled her eyes, but she was drunk enough to have few enough inhibitions to check anyway. But the only text message she had was from her mother, enquiring as to whether she had her key because she and her father wanted to go to bed.

                “Nothing,” Sansa said, flashing her phone screen to prove it. “He probably thinks we’re stupid teenagers.”

                “No,” Margaery said, with some confidence. “I think he’s waiting for you to be alone first. Text him when you get home, right? Tell him you’re all tucked up in bed and alone and he’ll text you back. See if I’m right. Who are you texting?”

                “Mum,” Sansa answered. “Just letting her know I do have my key.”

 

They called a cab at about twelve, before last call and early enough to be a pair of slightly late Cinderella’s. It dropped Margaery first, and when Sansa paid and slid her key into her door, it was nearly half past. She washed the make-up off her face, kicked her shoes off and shimmied out of dress and tights before she fell gratefully into bed. Despite  the lateness of the hour and despite the alcohol – or perhaps because of the latter – she messaged Petyr again.

 

_Sansa: Hello Petyr. I’m sorry about Margaery and that message. I’d had enough to drink to make it seem like a really good idea at the time. Upon reflection, it seems childish. Sorry again. You’ll be pleased to know that I’m home in bed now so you’re in no danger of being disturbed._

She didn’t expect a response, really, given the hour and her assumption that he was irritated by the earlier text. She wished now she’d refused – Margaery would have let it go if she’d flatly refused and not handed her phone over. She would have teased for a while about wimping out and being a coward, but she would not have pushed if she, Sansa, had made it plain that she would not go on. It was with some surprise, therefore, that she saw his name appear on her phone screen at a little before quarter to one.

 

_Petyr: You don’t need to apologise to me. While I was surprised, I was not displeased. You looked delicious, if I may say so._

_Sansa: You may say so, Mr Baelish._

_Petyr: Ah, so I’m suddenly Mr Baelish again? Call me Petyr, Sansa._

_Sansa: And if I refuse, Mr Baelish? What will you do?_

_Petyr: I haven’t decided. Are you drunk?_

_Sansa: Not particularly. I’ve been worse and will be worse again. Why?_

_Petyr: Because if you were drunk, I would be obliged to end this conversation now in the name of being a gentleman. But as you maintain you are not, I see no harm in a midnight conversation._

_Sansa: You are not a gentlemen, Mr Baelish. You’re a lawyer._

_Petyr: Oh that’s very good Sansa. Very good indeed._

_Sansa: Thank you. What are you doing that you’re still awake to speak to me?_

_Petyr: Honestly? I was waiting for you to speak to me, tell me you were home safe._

_Sansa: That’s sweet. I’m fine, as you can tell. Cinderella was a little late, but she got home before her taxi turned into a pumpkin. You really don’t need to worry about me._

_Petyr: Good to hear. Any man would worry about a beautiful woman out on the town without a chaperone._

_Sansa: I don’t need a chaperone, Mr Baelish._

_Petyr: I beg to differ. You should be – closely supervised. Preferably by someone older and wiser._

 

_Sansa: If you know anyone, do let me know won’t you? I could probably use a little close supervision occasionally._

 

                                                                                                                          

 

 


	6. Petyr III

_Petyr: I beg to differ. You should be – closely supervised. Preferably by someone older and wiser._

_Sansa: If you know anyone, do let me know won’t you? I could probably use a little close supervision occasionally._

 

Petyr sat up in bed, propping his pillows behind him. This was getting interesting. Very interesting. He made his decision in a split second.  

                “Mr Baelish?” her voice said, the smile evident in it. He relaxed at once. Her voice sounded perfectly clear, there was no slurring or wobble to it. She might have had a bit to drink, but she seemed in full control of herself. Thank the Gods too, because he wasn’t sure he was noble enough to step back from whatever was happening between them.

                “Sansa, please – call me Petyr. I shall not ask you again.”

                “Oh good, at least you’ll stop expending the energy.”   

                “You can be exceptionally cheeky on occasion, Sansa.” He heard her laugh, drank it in like it was ambrosia from the Gods themselves, found himself smiling even though she wouldn’t see it.

                “I take that as a compliment, Mr Baelish. You know, it’s very late for you to be speaking to your colleague’s 18 year old daughter. What would people say?”               

                “That I was a damn lucky man.”

                “Just for talking to me? Goodness me, Mr Baelish.”

                “I’d say we were doing more than talking, Sansa.” He could hear the smile in her voice, hear the humour bleeding into her words. He felt warmer than he’d felt in years.

                “Really? What would you say we were doing?”

                “I’d say we were flirting, Sansa. And I would say we were very much enjoying each other. I’d also say we were making progress from where we were when you sent me that text message.”

                “Please don’t remind me,” she answered, laughing for real now. He loved that sound, that laugh, like a bubbling brook or a running stream. He would do whatever he had to do to draw that laugh out of her again and again. “That was honestly the most embarrassing moment of my entire life and that includes the time my brother Robb walked in on me in the bath and then, when he closed his eyes in horror, he tripped over the bathmat and fell into the bath.” Petyr had to laugh; at the same time he closed his eyes to imagine Sansa naked and wet.

                “Sansa, please – don’t mention you being naked.” There was a long silence then, before her voice came down the line again. It was a purr now, a positively seductive tone.             

                “Oh, Mr Baelish,” she breathed. “Is that because you don’t want to think about me naked – or because you already think about me naked?” He inhaled, felt the breath burn a bit in his throat, felt his chest tighten a little with almost frantic desire.

                “You know,” he said, his voice tight. “You know which one.”

                “Say it,” her voice said. “Tell me.”

                “Oh, Sansa.”

                “Tell me,” she said again, and Gods help him but he could hear her smile and he could feel the desire rising. “Tell me, Petyr.” He crumbled like wet sand in the face of the sound of his name on her lips.

                “Because I already think about you naked.” Her laugh was delighted, as if she’d won.

                “Oh, you are a bad, bad man, Mr Baelish.” She sounded like she was enjoying this. Of course she was – she was as calculating as him. “And I really should say goodnight.”

                “You’re – what?” he said, disbelieving.

                “I’m saying goodnight, Mr Baelish. I’m tired. I have college tomorrow.” 

                “No – no, you don’t. Tomorrow is Friday. Your mother said you were off all day tomorrow because that was why you could go to the station.” She giggled then.  

                “Oh you’re right of course. But I do need to sleep, Mr Baelish. Goodnight.”

 

The phone in his hand went dead and he stared at it as her name vanished from the screen as the call dropped. She was going to be the death of him, there was no doubt about it. She was going to play with him until the end and then quite possibly chew him up and spit him out.

 

Sleep did not come easily to him that night. The sweetness of his name on her lips was like a drug, like the cocaine he’d done occasionally in his younger, wilder days, when it was a part of the social circle. It kept his eyes wide open as he stared up at his shadowy bedroom ceiling and _longed_ for her. His bed had never felt empty before this, now it felt vast and he felt lost in it. He wanted to sense her warmth beside him, roll over and throw an arm out and feel her body next to his. He could slide over, tuck her into him and pull her into him while he buried his face in her tumbled copper locks. Gods, but he was screwed over now – completely and utterly fucked. There was more to this than sex. For the first time in his entire adult life, he was not in control. The thought both liberated him and terrified him. This was an eighteen year old – and she’d brought him to his knees in one minutes of gentle teasing. Had she demanded he swallow ground glass or crawl through fire, he probably would have done it just to see her laugh.

 

When sleep did finally claim him, he found that it offered no respite from his thoughts of her. She haunted his dreams. He dreamed of her, of flowing red hair and piercing blue eyes and a killer smile. He dreamed she was in his house, dancing in his kitchen in one of his dress shirts and nothing else with her long legs bared to his explorations – hands, eyes, mouth... He’d never hated his alarm clock before but that morning he could have cheerfully thrown it out the window and gone back to sleep to continue that sweetly torturous dream. He was hard too, uncomfortably so, a physical reminder of his dreams. He threw his covers back with a groan.

 

His day did not necessarily improve. At noon, it started snowing and Catelyn bustled in. Sansa would be coming for Catelyn’s car, as it had winter tyres on and her own car did not. Catelyn would be in a meeting – would Petyr be so kind as to give her the car keys? He wasn’t sure about that. He wasn’t sure if he could trust himself not to throw Sansa onto his desk and start ravishing her right there. But what could he say? What could he do? He agreed to give Sansa the car keys, and take her own in exchange to give to Catelyn. At two-thirty, Sansa bustled in. She was well wrapped up in coat, scarf, hat, gloves and boots but he still thought about falling at her feet and offering to kiss them. She smiled at him as she started shedding layers. His heart jumped. She intended to linger, if she was taking off her winter gear.               

                “Good afternoon, Mr Baelish,” she said. Oh Gods. He couldn’t bear it.   

                “Good afternoon, Sansa. You’re here for the car keys.” She nodded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She threw her coat and other accessories onto the chair opposite his desk and then rounded it. Petyr felt a bit like a rabbit being stalked by a wolf. She boosted herself onto his desk – right next to him, for Heaven’s sake – and smiled at him serenely. He hated himself for his immediate thought of launching himself at her.

                “How are you today?” she enquired. He sat back in his chair and sighed. “Aren’t you well?” she asked, and he was torn between slamming his head onto his desk and kissing her. He looked at her, he saw the tease dancing in her eyes and the smirk on her lips and he felt his heart slip.

                “You have some nerve calling me a bad man, Sansa Stark,” he whispered. She leant forward, her hair tumbling over her shoulder.

                “Why?” she asked, her own voice low. 

                “Because you are worse.” She giggled, and he had to close his eyes. He heard a shifting, and when he opened his eyes she was standing again, this time alarmingly close to him. She was bent over him almost, her face inches from his, his vision surrounded by copper hair and the scent of roses was filling his nose. His hands flexed on the arms of his desk chair as he longed to grab her by the waist and feel her warmth under his palms.                       

                “But you love it.” He gazed at her.           

                “Oh, I do.” She smiled down at him, and for one wild moment, he thought she would kiss him. But she did nothing. “But there is something wrong, Sansa. Our relationship is – out of balance. It would only be fair if you told me something, after what I told you last night.” He stood abruptly, forcing her to take a step back. He advanced on her slowly, even as she retreated, still with that teasing smile on her face. When he’d backed her into the bookcase, he put his arms up, caging her there. She never took her eyes off him.

                “What can I do, to redress the balance?” she asked. He waited, he waited until she was starting to look confused. It was vital for his own peace of mind that he won this hand between them. Finally, he moved. He stroked aside the hair that tumbled over her shoulders, pushed it back until her chest and shoulders were clear. Her breath stuttered. He leaned in, close enough to kiss.

                “Tell me what you want,” he whispered to her, his mouth close to her ear. He felt rather than saw her shiver. “Tell me what you’re thinking right now, tell me what you want now, in this moment.”

                “Oh, I think you know,” she answered, her own mouth beside his ear. He stifled a groan with serious difficulty.                

                “Say it.”               

                “You,” she murmured to him. “I want you.” He covered his grin with her hair, but she hadn’t finished. “But there’s something I need too.”

                “Tell me.”  Her hands were on his chest suddenly, and she pushed him away, her smile almost cruel.

                “To leave.” And just like that, she stepped neatly around him and went over to the chair she’d dumped her things on. He was speechless, staring at her as she draped her scarf around her neck and slipped her coat on. Goddamn, she’d turned it on him. Again. Was he losing his touch? No – she was flushed, and despite her air of calm, he could see her hands shaking as she buttoned her coat and if he looked very close, he could see her chest rising more than was strictly necessary.

 

He crossed the office towards her in three swift strides. She turned in surprise, even as his arm went around her waist and he dragged her into him. His mouth was beside her ear again.

                “You don’t want to leave,” he murmured to her. She said nothing, and she did not throw him off her. “Shall I tell you what I think, Sansa? I think you want to stay here, with me, and push my buttons until I throw you down and ravish you. Would you like me to do that? Sweep my desk clear, throw you down on it, peel your clothes off and fuck you until you’re delirious with pleasure?”

                “Oh Gods.” As quietly as it was uttered, he heard it.

                “I won’t do it, Sansa. I know what game you’re playing. You want me to snap first, and make the first move, but I shall not. If you want me, Sansa, you will have to make that move.”


	7. Sansa IV

                “If you want me, Sansa, you will have to make that move.”

 

She wasn’t too clear about how she’d got herself out of his office, but she’d had to sit in the car for a moment before she drove off, gripping the steering wheel. She’d never been so aroused in her life and all she wanted was to go back into his office, pull his blinds, lock his door and shag him senseless. She drove to the station, arriving far too early. It was barely quarter past three. She got out anyway, locking the car up before she went inside, looking up at the arrivals board. The train that had both her brothers on it was currently running to time at least, despite the snow. She shivered as a gust of icy wind blew into the concourse through the open door and round her ankles. Pulling her coat and scarf closer around herself, she fished her phone out for something to do. She might as well update Margaery on the Petyr Baelish situation.

 

_Sansa: I’ve got gossip for you darling._

_Margaery: Oh? Do tell. Is it about a certain silvery fox?_

_Sansa: Yes. I had to go into Mum’s office today to change cars with her because of the snow. Petyr acted as delivery boy. Things got – intense._

_Margaery: Did you kiss him? Did he kiss you?_

_Sansa: No kissing, but he did push me up against his bookcase and we whispered to each other a lot. By the way, last night I got him to admit he’d thought about me naked. Today he made me admit that I wanted him. Then he told me that he wanted to throw me on his desk and fuck me until I was ‘delirious with pleasure’. That, by the way, is a direct quote._

_Sansa: Do you like skim milk or almond on your apology lattes?_

_Margaery: I like skim and I like them with an extra shot of caramel, thank you. This is the best news in the world. Don’t worry about getting me a Christmas present this year – this truly stunning gossip counts as it. Did he really say that? He’s a lot more passionate than I thought he would be._

_Sansa: What did you expect?_

_Margaery: I’m not really sure – it’s not something I’ve spent too long thinking about. But I suppose I expected him to be the in the dark, under the covers, missionary position, ten minutes of duty kind of man. However, I am delighted to hear he is not and that he sounds like he might be able to show you a good time._

_Sansa: Because I am the in the dark, under the covers, ten minutes in the missionary position type of shagger?_

_Margaery: Essentially. I keep telling you to broaden your horizons, although I admit it’s rather hard to do when you’re terminally single. Sounds like Petyr will be able to help._

She’d started typing her response when a shout went up.

                “Sansa!” She looked up and grinned at the sight of Robb striding towards her, followed by Jon and both of them laden down by duffel bags. She waved and they both reached her, dropping bags to hug her. “You look great,” Robb said, stepping back to let Jon embrace her.

                “Thank you,” she answered. “You both need a shave though.” They laughed, rubbing their beards and shuffling their feet.

                “Extra warmth for up north,” Jon answered. She grinned at him.

                “Come on. You might have beards for warmth but I do not and it is bloody cold standing here.”

 

They went back to the car, and Sansa piled the boys in, before she hopped into the driver’s seat and cranked the heat up.

                “So – not that you aren’t lovely, dear sister – but why are you here?” Robb asked, sticking his head between the front seats.

                “Mum had to go into work, something about a former client reoffending. And if you give me any more lip you can walk home.” She smirked at him in the rearview mirror and he rolled his eyes at her. “How’s it been going anyway?” she asked. “How’s university? How’s life?”

                “Fine,” Jon answered. “Robb’s got a girl.”

                “You are such a fucking grass, Jon.”

                “A girl, huh?” Sansa asked, smiling wider. She adored torturing her brothers. “What’s her name? What’s she like? How did you meet?”

                “Oh Gods, it’s like having mum here,” Robb grumbled. “Fine. Her name is Jeyne, thank you. Jeyne Westerling. She’s very nice. We met in the student bar. And just in my own revenge, Jon’s been shagging.” Sansa damn near crashed into a traffic light as she spluttered with laughter.

                “Oh have you now?” she asked, glancing at the scarlet Jon. “And whom, pray tell, has my dear cousin been shagging?” Jon turned round to glare at Robb before he spoke.

                “Her name is Ygritte,” he ground out. “And that’s all you’re getting and Robb doesn’t know a damn thing about her so anything he tells you is a filthy lie.”

                “Oh, aren’t we tense?” Sansa teased. He glowered and she patted his leg before she changed gears to tackle the hill before them. “There my love. I’ll be good and don’t worry – I know Robb’s a lying little shit when he thinks it’ll get him out of a corner. So did you two spend the entire train journey comparing beards and scrapping or were you at least vaguely polite to one another?”

                “We slept, mostly. Need the energy for when Arya mistakes us for skittles and herself for a ball and knocks us both over.”

                “Oh, she’s calming down. And I have gossip for you two.”

                “What?”

                “Arya’s got a boyfriend. Except he isn’t her boyfriend, he’s just a boy who’s a friend and his name is Gendry and ‘he’s not my boyfriend’!”

                “No bloody way!” Robb said, hooting with laughter.

                “Is he her boyfriend though?” Jon asked, between his laughs. “Or is it just a joke?”

                “In all honesty we aren’t too sure,” Sansa said, flashing her headlights to let a driver out before she made her turn into the local high street. “He’s certainly around a lot and they seem close. He calls her ‘my lady’ and she calls him either Gendry or ‘you bastard’ depending on whether Mum’s in earshot.”

                “He calls her my lady?” Robb asked.

                “He reckons she’s posh. She normally punches him in the jaw when he says that, then they fight, then they make up – so we’re assuming he is a boyfriend.”

                “What’s he like?”

                “He seems nice enough to me. He’s sixteen, doing his GCSEs this year so he’s the year above her. Dad gets on well with him.”

                “Fair enough.” Sansa grinned as she swung into the driveway and parked the car in the garage.

 

The first few minutes were a confused mess of shouted greetings, hugs, and chaos. Jon and Robb both trampled up the stairs at top volume leaving Sansa in the hallway, hanging coat and scarf in the cupboard under the stairs. Ned was still there too, smiling fondly as loud footsteps stampeded along the corridor.

                “Anyone would think our eldest were home,” he said, smiling at Sansa. She just laughed at him, progressing to kitchen to put the kettle on.

                “You love it when we’re all home,” she teased. “Coffee?”

                “Please darling. Oh I do, of course. Your mum will love it too – although maybe not the beards. Did they tell you what that was about?” Sansa glanced out into the hall and beckoned her father closer.

                “There’s girlfriends,” she said conspiratorially. “Robb’s got a girl called Jeyne and Jon’s is apparently called Ygritte.”

                “Oh, have they now?” her father said, his eyes twinkling. “I see. I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I must be getting old when both my big lads and my little lady have significant others.”

                “To be fair though, Gendry isn’t a boyfriend,” Sansa said, grinning as she poured his coffee and her tea. Ned laughed.

                “Of course, I forgot. But what about you, my girl? Hasn’t anyone caught your blue eyes?”

                “No,” she said, her heart quickening as she lied. “There’s nobody.”

                “Are you sure?” he said, looking at her. “Because there’s been a look about you the last couple of days.” Sansa felt herself go scarlet. “Oho – there is someone catching my girl’s eye. Come on, tell your old Dad all about it.”

                “I don’t want to jinx it,” she muttered. She thanked all the Gods that she heard her mother’s voice at that point. She turned back to the kettle to make her mother a cup of tea and then made her escape to the den. Margaery had sent her another message.

 

_Margaery: How’s it going anyway? Weren’t you picking up your handsome brothers today?_

_Sansa: Just got home with them now but you’d be wasting your time. They’re both off the market apparently._

_Margaery: Oh for fuck’s sake, really? Damn._

_Sansa: I’m sorry to disappoint you/bring bad news. How was the last day of college anyway?_

_Margaery: Dull. Nobody did anything and the kids went mad. Saw your sister on the roof of the Science Block._

_Sansa: That’ll be Robb and Jon’s influence. Don’t you remember what they did the last day of their time there?_

_Margaery: Am I ever likely to forget? The look on the Head’s face when he came out to find the grass covered in flour was a brilliant sight. He would have thrown them both out if it hadn’t been five to three and the last day of term._

_Sansa: Mum was livid. Absolutely livid._

_Margaery: I bet she was. Am I still sleeping over on the 23 rd?_

_Sansa: Yes. We need to be up early to cook on Christmas Eve._

_Margaery: Any eligible men going to be there?_

_Sansa: No. But Petyr’s coming. He thinks I don’t know what he’s planning._

_Margaery: Is he now? And what is he planning?_

_Sansa: He intends to get me into bed. Mum has been inviting him to Christmas Eve here for ten years, ever since they started working together. He’s always refused. Suddenly he’s game for a chaotic Stark evening? He thinks he’ll win this._

_Margaery: So you won’t go to bed with him if he offers?_

_Sansa: I didn’t say that._

Oh, she knew Petyr’s plan. He thought he would seduce her until she was dizzy, until she was so desperate she’d do anything he wanted. He was wrong. Perhaps two years ago, the Sansa she’d been then, perhaps then she would have so easily taken in. Not now. Joffrey might have come near to breaking her heart and her belief but he hadn’t actually succeeded. She was wise enough now to see right through Petyr Baelish, and she was determined to play his game on her terms. As and when they went to bed – and there was no doubt in her mind now that they would end up there – it would be on her terms, not his.

 

She was a player in the game too and if he hadn’t realised that yet, well that was just too bad.

 


	8. Petyr IV

Petyr was sulking.

 

It was not necessarily an emotional condition he had a great deal of experience in but for once, he was determined to indulge. Sansa Stark was a thousand times better at this game than he was, and it both irritated and pleased him. He thought she would have messaged him and yet nothing, not even one of those emoji things people seemed so fond of these days.

 

He did not want to crack first, but he wanted to speak to her, to hear her voice or even just read her messages. If he wasn’t careful, he would crack first and that would be a terrible loss. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep showing his face if he cracked first now. She probably knew it too.

 

When a knock came at his front door, he contemplated ignoring it. He was in no mood to entertain.

                “I know you’re in there, Baelish. I can see the lights.” For Gods’ sake, he’d forgotten Varys was coming over. He hauled himself up and went to answer it. When he swung it open, Varys took one look at him and groaned aloud. “Oh dear, what’s happened? Who have you fallen in love with?”

                “Excuse me?” Petyr nearly spat. When Varys only raised an eyebrow, he stepped back and gestured. Varys stepped inside and Petyr trailed him to the living room, his sulks only intensifying. He was gracious enough to offer Varys a drink and decided he might as well have one himself. He poured a very generous slug of neat scotch and drank nearly half of it in one mouthful before he spoke. “Who says I’m in love?”

                “That look in your eye. The general air of irritability. The reaction when I made the joke about it.” He could have cheerfully swung for Varys, he really could have. He contented himself with glowering and Varys smiled irritatingly. “So, who is the poor lady who is subject to your dubious affections?”             

                “I doubt you know her. Her name is Sansa.”

                “Sansa? You don’t mean Sansa Stark?

                “You do know her?” Petyr said, baffled.

                “I _teach_ her, Petyr. She’s seventeen!”

                “Eighteen,” Petyr corrected.

                “Ah. Well, I suppose that makes it slightly better.”

                “She’s willing, Varys,” Petyr said, coldly. “You needn’t act as if I’m twirling my moustache and stealing her virtue like a Victorian villain.” Varys shot him a sharp look.

                “I did not for a moment suppose you were, old friend. But it is inescapable that you are older than her by almost thirty years. People will talk.” Petyr poured another scotch.

                “I don’t know it would last so long. I don’t know if she wants a relationship.”

                “But you do.” Petyr didn’t bother questioning it. Varys always knew.

                “Varys, I don’t know that I want to discuss this. Not with you. Not yet.” Varys held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.    

                “Very well, Petyr. I won’t push you for it.” There was a pause between the pair, before Varys spoke again. “I’m sure you remember that I came over for something specific,” Varys continued. “Have you drawn up the papers?”

                “Yes,” Petyr said, going over to his briefcase. “Here. All he has to do is sign them and have her sign them. Then he’s divorced.”          

                “Thank you, Petyr. He’ll appreciate it.” Petyr snorted.

                “What I cannot understand is why he didn’t do this years ago. If _I_ were unfortunate enough to be married to Lysa Arryn, I would have jumped off Alayne’s Tears years ago.”

                “Well, we all make mistakes. Fortunately, you’re a good lawyer and could work around that ghastly pre-nup. Does Catelyn know about her sister’s divorce?”

                “If she does, she hasn’t mentioned it to me.” Varys suddenly took a deep breath.

                “Petyr, I have to say something to you about Sansa. Do not play games with her. She is a lovely girl, a genuinely good soul. If you must embark on a seduction of her, do it properly.”    

                “Properly?” Petyr said, raising his eyebrows.

                “No games,” Varys repeated. “No games. Buy her flowers, gifts, jewellery or whatever it is one buys someone they have a romantic attraction to. Not my area of expertise, I must admit. Romantic attraction is something I will never experience, after all. But I’ve read books and seen films and flowers and so on seem to be the way to go.”

 

Varys stayed for dinner, reconfirmed their plans for their usual bachelor’s Christmas Day and then departed, leaving Petyr to gloom about. Most unfortunately, Varys’ questioning had raised thoughts he did not want to have. Did he love her? Had he, somewhere and so, so rapidly, fallen in love with a girl with red hair, sparkling blue eyes, sharp wit and sharper mind? A girl, as Varys had so kindly pointed out, nearly thirty damn years his junior. And he had no idea what she wanted.

 

To hell with his pride and to hell with playing games.

 

_Petyr: I miss you._

_Sansa: Miss me? You only saw me three hours ago._

_Petyr: Regardless. Are you free to talk?_

_Sansa: I’m in my room._

_Petyr: Good. Is it nice having your brothers home?_

_Sansa: Yes. I mean, it’s chaos, of course but it’s good chaos. Family chaos._

_Petyr: I wouldn’t know too much about that. I was an only child. But I’m sure I’ll learn all about it Christmas Eve._

_Sansa: I’m slightly worried you aren’t really prepared for what you’re walking into._

_Petyr: I don’t think I am._

_Sansa: So what finally prompted you to accept Mum’s invitation? I know she always asks._

_Petyr: I decided it was time to learn to socialise. Do you ever get tired of all the noise?_

_Sansa: Sometimes it can get a bit much. Everyone needs peace and quiet sometimes! But it’s a big house, if I get desperate I can always sit in my room or have a bath. Don’t you get lonely?_

_Petyr: Sometimes. But then I like the peace._

_Sansa: Well, if it gets too much for you on Christmas Eve, just tip me the wink. I can show you the gardens or the cupboard under the stairs. You can do your impression of the Grinch._

_Petyr: Grinch?_

_Sansa: Please tell me you’ve seen The Grinch?? Jim Carrey?_

_Petyr: I am aware of its existence._

_Sansa: Oh my Gods. Petyr, are you busy?_

_Petyr: No, why?_

_Sansa: Because I’m coming over. We’re going to watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas. I assume that’s acceptable?_

_Petyr: Sure._

He sprung up. Five minutes of intense tidying restored his home to immaculate condition, five further minutes of intense personal grooming restored some of his confidence and sanity. He looked in the mirror, really looked for once. He noticed his greying temples and the lines around his eyes. He noticed the outfit and groaned. Three minutes later found him in dress trousers, shirt, clean socks and underwear. He shook his head, changed the trousers for his only pair of jeans and unbuttoned a button on his shirt. There. That was better. Or did he now look like he was trying to look young and hip? He was about to change again when his doorbell rang and he froze with his hands on his belt. He muttered a curse and decided it would have to do.

 

She looked stunning. Her hair was thrown back into a casual braid and although he immediately decided he preferred it loose, the casual style suited her. She was wearing some soft, tight trousers and an over-sized jumper. He drank in the sight of her while she waved a DVD at him.         

                “Please tell me you aren’t a Blu-Ray man.”

                “No,” he said, stepping back so she could come in. She smiled and skipped inside.

                “Are you a shoes off house?” she asked. When he nodded, she kicked her trainers off and arranged them neatly on the shoe rack in his porch, nestled beside his work shoes. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen this film,” she said, as he led her into his den.

                “At least you’re here to rectify this terrible occurrence,” he replied, smiling. “Do you want a glass of wine or a rum and coke or a soft drink or anything?” he asked, as he took the film from her and slid it into the machine.

                “A glass of wine would be lovely.” She was still standing, and he grinned at her.

                “You can sit down,” he pointed out. She grinned and plunked down – right in the centre of the sofa. He would be sitting next to her regardless now. “Red, white or rosé?” he asked.

                “Oh, if you’ve got it, I would love rosé.”               

                “Wouldn’t have offered it to you if I didn’t have it,” he called, as he went into the kitchen to fix her a drink. He poured her a glass of the requested rosé and himself a glass of red, before he went back into the living room. She’d removed her jumper. Oh Gods. All she wore now was a tight little vest thing, skimpy enough to reveal that her bra straps were black. There were those shoulders again and the vision of him kissing along the curve of it nearly choked him for a second. He prided himself on not checking his stride and handed her the glass. “I’m afraid it isn’t cold but I’ve put the bottle in the fridge now.”

                “I’m not fancy, Petyr, don’t you worry.” She was calling him Petyr.

                “You are fancy, but it’s good fancy. Are you ready?”

                “Ready,” she said, beaming at him. “Aren’t you sitting down?” He sat, right beside her and close enough to feel the warmth of her. Her legs were curled up under her, her knees mere inches from his leg. She suddenly jumped up, as the DVD adverts started playing. She handed her glass to him.

                “What are you doing?” he queried.

                “Lights,” she said. He watched, open-mouthed, as she went over to the switches and turned out the main lights. She went over the floor lamp and switched it to the middle setting, leaving a low, ambient lighting. She came back to him and whether she did it intentionally or not, she sat closer. He offered her glass again, and this time she took it from him by brushing their fingers together. He must not tackle her to the sofa, he must not tackle her to the sofa, he must not tackle her to the sofa. He pressed play with shaking fingers and settled down.

 

Her warmth beside him was a distraction. He could feel her, even though he kept his eyes determinedly on the film. The slightest movement from her was like a march on his senses, every time she took a sip of wine or smiled at something in the film, he was as aware of it as if she’d shouted directly in his ear. The lamplight lit her in warmth, bringing out the fire in her hair and the creaminess of her skin. Oh Gods, but he wanted to touch her; he needed to feel her skin under his hands.

 

She shifted suddenly, leaning forward to put her now-empty glass on the coffee table. When she leant back again, she was so, so much closer. Her knees were _centimetres_ from him. He clenched his fist where it rested on his lap, and gathered every single scrap of his courage. He lifted it, placed it gently on her knee. She gave a tiny gasp and he saw her eyes track from his presuming hand to his face. He stared at her, her blue eyes holding his in a whirlpool. He had to fight the urge to kiss her.

                “Do you want another glass of wine?” he asked, his voice rough. She inhaled so deeply that he saw her chest heave with it. She licked her lips before she answered, he could see the decision in her eyes.

                “I drove here,” she answered, and the reluctance was obvious in her voice.

                “I can call you a cab. I have an account. Or there’s soft drinks. Or –“ he trailed off, unsure of what she’d say.

                “Or?” she prompted him. Behind them, the film played on.

                “Or – you could stay. Stay tonight, I mean.”

 

There was quiet between them, and in it he can hear the thoughts turning over in her head. She licked her lips again.

                “I would love another glass of wine, Mr Baelish.” Mr Baelish – she was flirting. She hadn’t said whether she’d take the taxi or the bed, but he could hear the implication. She would stay. He had a guest room, it was ready to receive a guest. She would be under no pressure. He made to get up, but she grabbed his arm, smiled. “I can get it.”

                “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re my guest.”


	9. Sansa V

Her heart had skipped beats inside her chest when he’d asked her to stay. He’d offered her a taxi too, admittedly, but she thought they both knew that she would stay when she accepted the second glass of wine. He’d been deliberately vague about exactly where she’d stay, that hadn’t escaped her notice. But still, she did not doubt for even a second that if she asked to be shown to the guest room or asked for a cab number, he would allow her whatever she requested. He would not force her. She felt safe with him.

 

When he went into the kitchen, she thought about moving to the other end of the sofa. She thought about stripping naked and waiting for him. She thought about turning the lights back on and possibly putting her jumper on. In the end, she did none of those things, just stayed where she was, as she was. When he came back in with the wine, he looked irritatingly relaxed. He handed it to her, and this time, their fingers brushed very deliberately. He was watching her, watching to see her reactions. She took the glass and patted the seat beside her with her free hand.

                “Sit down, Mr Baelish. I don’t bite.” He smirked.

                “Pity,” he said, sitting down. He was closer this time too, and now her knee was pressed against his leg. He did not move his leg and she did not move hers. They both stared at the film, but she couldn’t be sure how much of it he was actually taking in. He seemed tense, that was for sure. Perhaps she should move her knee, perhaps it was bothering him. If she was a nicer person, she might have moved the leg. Instead, she adjusted her position so her legs were crossed in front of her, her elevated foot against his shin. If she pulled the courage up, she might be able to run her foot up his shin. He glanced at her, she saw the movement. She deliberately did not look at him or acknowledge his movement. She was determined to play it cool. She wouldn’t be the one to crack first.

 

The film continued playing, and as the Grinch started stealing toys, he shifted.

                “How exactly am I like this Grinch?” he enquired. She smiled at him, pulling her braid over her shoulder and playing with the end as she turned to him slightly.          

                “The green face, to start with,” she teased. He shook his head at her, and she relented. “I meant you could exhibit a lack of Christmas spirit by grumping around on Christmas Eve.”

                “I have a Christmas spirit,” he answered. “I’m just not overly demonstrative about it.” She just smiled as the Grinch gathered presents into his sack.

                “What have you asked Santa for this year?” she queried. He eyed her in a manner she could only describe as lecherous, and despite herself, she felt herself blushing.

                “Oh, just one thing,” he said. “But it’s priceless, so I don’t know if he’ll be able to deliver.” As he spoke, Sansa began to germinate an idea in her mind. Oh yes – if she had the courage, it would be amazing. She’d have to speak to Margaery. A shopping trip – Margaery’s favourite kind of shopping trip – would be in order.

                “He’s Santa,” she answered. “As long as you’ve been a good boy, I’m sure he’ll try.”

                “Oh, then I’ll definitely not get it.”

                “Perhaps he’ll just put coal in your stocking,” she answered, and got to revel in his laugh.

                “What have you asked for?” She looked at him and smiled.

                “The usual – diamonds, an unlimited bank account and the souls of those who have displeased me this year.” He swallowed his sip of wine and laughed at her. She grinned and loved the sound of his mirth. He looked softer in the dimmed light; the lines that stress and hard work had carved beside his eyes looked less harsh. The silver hairs that were slowly encroaching on his temples sparkled and she loved them. His goatee was still dark, but if he moved his head in the right direction, one or two hairs glinted. She found herself wanting to feel that goatee against her skin. Would it be rough, would it be smooth, would it scratch her or rub her? Would it light up her fair skin in an incriminating shade of red? Would she be able to track the path his mouth took along her body by the red path he might leave behind?

 

The thought aroused her. She shifted in her seat, and his hand touched her knee again. This time, she jumped.               

                “Are you alright?” he asked.

                “Yes,” she murmured. “Fine.” She was starting to think that she should go home. It might be safer all round. On the film, the Grinch was cackling over his loot.

                “You look – flushed.” Did she indeed. Once more, she cursed the fair skin that betrayed even the slightest hint of feeling. He didn’t push it.

 

He did not remove his hand. He left it in place, curled so lightly around her knee, and she found the gesture warming, like an embrace. A little voice in the back of her mind was telling her that the sensible thing to do would be to call a halt to this. She was unlikely to get more than a shag out of this, and letting herself hope for more was setting herself up for heartbreak. But then there was another voice, a voice that said maybe, just maybe he wanted something more too. Her heart was banging away so hard inside her she was half-afraid he might hear it. Unbidden but not entirely unwanted, she remembered how he’d held her in his office, how he’d whispered his intentions into her ear. She half regretted the impulsive decision to come over, to come to him, barely hours after he’d given her the single hottest experience of her entire life. She should have stayed away, she should have asked him to call her a taxi.

 

The film had ended. She blinked a little as she came out of her reverie. She’d been miles away, completely lost in her inner monologue. He shifted a little beside her, and his thumb stroked over her knee.

                “Do you need to go?” he asked and in the words, she heard what he didn’t say – did she want to go? No, no she did not. She wanted to stay here with him, on his sofa and feel his thumb stroke that burning path over her knee and zinging along her nerves.

                “What time is it?” she asked.

                “Nearly eight.”

                “I don’t have to go. Unless you want rid of me?” There, put it on him, let him make the decision. He shook his head immediately.

                “Never. Are you hungry? I can cook?”

                “I had dinner before I came. But if you need to eat, don’t let me stop you.”

                “I ate too. But if you’re staying, perhaps I can show you a film this time?”

                “What film?” He grinned, sliding a film down from his shelves and holding it out to her.

                “Blair Witch.”

                “I can be – a bit of a wimp.”

                “I’ll hold you if you get scared, I promise.” Now, that was exciting. She couldn’t turn it down – and after all, it was very likely that his promise would be put to the test.

 

He refilled her wine glass before he started loading the film. While he was lent down over the television, she sat back and admired the view – and what a view it was. She could get used to that view. She set her glass down.

                “Can I use your loo, before it starts?” she asked. He looked at her.

                “Of course you can. It’s just off the hall, right opposite this room.” Well, rats to that. She’d been hoping for a peek into his bedroom. After she’d washed her hands, she examined herself critically in the mirror. She pursed her lips at the reflection before she made some hasty permanent adjustments. She tightened her bra slightly, pulling her cleavage up. Ah yes, that was better. Let’s see him keep his cool now. Despite her scheming, though, she got the shock when she came back in. The floor lamp she’d lit was out now, and its light had been replaced by a flickering fire.

                “What’s this, Mr Baelish?” she teased, smiling. He looked round at her – and stayed looking. “This is almost romantic,” she continued, advancing on the sofa. “One might think that you have – intentions.” She stopped in front of him. He looked up at her and there was no mistaking the dark, desperate hunger in his eyes.

                “How scared do you get for horror films?”

                “I’ve never watched one all through,” she confessed. “I always hide.”

                “Shall I hold you?” he asked.

 

She barely restrained the triumphant smile. She’d won.

                “You should.” He leant back into the sofa smiling, opening his arms to her. He expected her to chicken out, or sit beside him, she could see the expectation on his face. Instead she knelt on the end of the chaise longue end of the sofa, and crawled towards him. She tucked herself into his arms, turning herself so his chest rested against her back. Gods, he was solid. She also knew that in this position, she’d be able to buy her face into his neck if necessary – which would have the added bonus of being a little bit of light torture for him too. He pressed play and then proceeded to make himself comfortable.

 

His arms encircled her, pulling her tight against him. One of his hands rested against her belly and the other was resting on the arm of the sofa, loosely clenched. She snuggled back against him, resting her head against his shoulder. It meant she had to rearrange her braid, pulling it over her left shoulder so her right rested unencumbered against him. Her heart was banging out the tango inside her rib cage. He tightened his grip on her and unseen, she smiled. She could definitely work with this – there was a very interesting part of his anatomy in an excellent place after all.

 

The film was fine at first, even a little slow in places. She and Petyr remained in each other’s arms and only moved occasionally to sip wine. While the characters on screen heard twigs snapping in the night, the hand on the arm of the sofa strayed to her plait, playing with the ends. She felt him tug the band at the end, and she made no protest when he unwound it and ran his fingers through her hair. His right hand moved from her belly, he danced his fingertips over her bare shoulder and trailed a burning path up her neck. It took every ounce of self-control she had to suppress a moan.

                “This is where the scares start,” he murmured to her. “But I’ll keep you nice and close.” In some attempt at revenge for the neck stroking, she pressed herself back against his body, deliberately wriggling her arse against him. She felt the tension pass through him and knew she’d been successful even as he inhaled sharply and looked down at her.

                “Thank you, Mr Baelish.”


	10. Petyr V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You poor folks have been teased enough. Enjoy some action!

                “Thank you, Mr Baelish.” For Gods’ sake, she had her arse pressed against his cock and still she called him Mr Baelish. And he could see the mischief in her eyes so he knew she knew exactly what she was doing. He was out of his depth, he had had plans to do this properly. Admittedly, he’d only had these plans since about six this afternoon, but still – there was going to be a seduction, flowers and fruit baskets maybe. He should throw her off right now and call her a taxi. He should possibly also drape her in a blanket to cover her up, while blinding himself and possibly drinking some salt water. He’d heard that was an emetic, and throwing up would probably kill the mood.

 

But oh dear Gods, she smelt so fucking good. Roses from her hair, he thought, or possibly her perfume. Would she forgive him if he kissed her? He could bend his head, kiss her neck, trace the path his fingers had taken. She was watching the film, apparently interested in the argument about the map, and appeared entirely relaxed. He was wound tighter than a coiled spring. It wasn’t bloody fair. She did jump pretty badly when the tent shook, and he held her tighter.

                “If it gets too much, I can turn it off,” he said to her, feeling a little guilty. It was not a feeling he was entirely familiar with, it had to be said.

                “Just – just don’t let go,” she answered, and his heart leapt. Gods, what it meant to hear those words – even if it was in a strange context.

                “Don’t worry,” he murmured into her ear. “You’re in safe hands.” She gave a little breathy laugh at that.

                “Oh, I hardly think your hands could be described as safe, Mr Baelish.”

                “Petyr,” he directed. He tightened his grip on her, pulling her close. His lips were all but touching her ear now. “Call me Petyr.”

                “What will you give me?” she asked. Her head tipped to the side, giving him absolutely free and unfettered access to her neck, her shoulders. He could drop his head mere inches and he would be able to taste her. “What will you give me if I do?”

                “You’re asking the wrong question,” he said smoothly, his free hand straying back to her hair. He had been right about it; it was like silk running through his fingers or even water. “You should be asking what I will do if you don’t.” She laughed at him then, her hand covering his on her belly with her free hand fluttering down to lay along his thigh.

                “You don’t frighten me, Mr Baelish,” she said, and he knew, he _knew_ that she was shoehorning his name into it deliberately, baiting and teasing. He loved it, he loved her for it. Her entire attitude was a maelstrom of laughter, fun and temptation and he adored it.

                “Don’t play with me, Sansa,” he said, fighting to insert the warning note. “I assure you, I will win.”

                “I love confidence in a man,” she responded, wriggling a little until he loosened his hold, wondering what she was doing. She answered it by turning round to face him.

 

His heart stopped beating, his mind shut down, every plan and plot he’d laid shooting clear out of the window as Sansa Stark straddled his lap and put her hands on his shoulders.

                “As I said,” she breathed, looking down into his face, “I do love confidence in a man – especially when it is so adorably misplaced.”

                “Misplaced?” he said, then silently cursed when the word began with a stutter. Good Gods, what was this girl doing to him?

                “Misplaced,” she repeated, and then she moved her hips. He grabbed her waist with a grip that was probably uncomfortably tight. He hoped to the Gods that his face did not reflect how close he’d come to blacking out. “You see, _Mr Baelish,_ I am the one with the upper hand.”

                “Upper hand?” he said, so completely lost it was all he could do to repeat her words.

                “Very much so. You see, I could pin you down and just do this –“ she said, as she repeated her hip movements, “over and over again until you come. Then I could get off, call a taxi, and vanish into the night, leaving you a mess behind me. I could do this until you could remember nothing but my name, nothing but my touch. Because in my experience, Mr Baelish, men are _easy_. Men are easy to tease, to play with, to bring to orgasm. So I could make you lose all of that control, all of that presentation you’re so proud of and walk away. And yes, I know it would do something for me too, but it wouldn’t complete me. I could leave you here to think about me going home and fucking myself to orgasm.”

 

He had a feeling that he probably looked as though he was concussed. He had a feeling he should be saying something, doing something – anything to regain some bit of control, some semblance of equality if not control. He said and did precisely nothing unless maintaining his hold on her waist counted. He didn’t think it did really, because it probably only added to the impression that his brain had spontaneously combusted. His mind and heart were screaming at him, telling him to let her do it, let her do whatever she wanted to him and carry out her positively diabolical plan.

 

He had the brief thought that he had died and had somehow managed to get into Heaven.

 

She was still looking at him, and there was a look in her eye that was almost amusement. Oh Gods, how long had he been spaced out? How long had he been blanked, thinking about what she could do to him?

                “Goodness, Mr Baelish,” she said, the teasing in her voice blatant now. “Imagine what would happen to you if I did do it to you.” Behind them, the film played unheeded.

                “Who is to say I would just lie there and take it?” he asked, relieved to note that his voice sounded normal once more. “Who is to say I wouldn’t wait for my moment, turn us so you were beneath me and have you at my mercy?”

                “It’s not mercy if I’m willing,” she pointed out.

                “Are you?” he said. She was smiling at him.

                “ _Such_ a lawyer,” she breathed. “Let’s review it. I came over here willingly, sat down willingly, touched you willingly. And I kissed you first.”

 

Her mouth came down on his and he did not stop her or prevent it. Rather he kissed her too, kissed her back with a passion and a recklessness that he realised had been so absent in his life. It felt wonderful to just give in to passion and finally, finally kiss her.

 

Her lips were soft and full, her waist soft under his hands. Her hands were warm on his chest, soaking through his shirt and burning onto his skin.He thought they might leave burn marks. His hands rose up from her waist and did what he’d wanted to do ever since he’d had that dinner at her parent’s house – dived into her hair and wrapped it into his fists. It was like heaven, like diving into cool water, like diving into silk or pure cotton, and he groaned into her open mouth. She was beautiful, gasping as he tugged gently on the strands. Her hands were sliding up his neck, looping behind his neck as she pulled him closer and scraped her nails through the short hair at his nape.

 

Every fibre of his being was howling at him, telling him that this was his chance, perhaps the only chance, perhaps the best chance he'd ever have in his entire life – and for some ungodly reason, there was still an irritating little voice (that sounded suspiciously like Varys) telling him to do this properly. But he couldn't tear himself away, couldn't stop kissing her, couldn't stop his hands from trying to pull her closer. He wanted to –

 

_Bang bang bang!_

They both leapt apart as though they'd been stung by vipers. Someone was banging on the front door, insistently and loudly. Sansa pushed her hair back and he noticed with some satisfaction that it was rumpled to the point of tangling. Her shirt had been pushed up to just below her breasts – had he done that?

 

_Bang, bang, bang!_

He groaned in frustration.

                “I'm going to have to -" he said lamely, gesturing in the vague direction of the front door. She nodded and pulled her shirt down. He was pleased to note that she was breathing hard and that her lips were slightly swollen, her eyes a little glassy.

                “You might want to – um -" she trailed off, gesturing at his front. He looked down and then quirked an eyebrow at her.

                “Did you -" he didn't get to finish as whichever hell-spawned bastard who apparently required his attention so urgently apparently switched from knocking to attempting to batter his front door down. He turned and stormed towards it, buttoning his shirt back up as best as he could and running a hand through his hair as he opened the door.

                “What in the seven hells is so damn important?” he growled, glowering at the calm countenance of Tyrion Lannister.

                “Your shirt is buttoned wrong, Littlefinger,” came the answer. He ground his teeth together.

                “I've asked you not to call me that,” he snapped. “Where's the goddamned fire?”

                “At Lannister HQ. Someone petrol-bombed us – probably something to do with my charming sister.”

                “I don't do corporate law anymore, as well you know. I take prosecution or claimant cases. So whatever you may have lost is down to your company lawyers to resolve with your insurance.” Tyrion raised his eyebrows at the snappy tone before an almost evil smirk crossed his features.

                “Oho – no invite inside, clothes askew, hair out of place and an extra car on the drive? You've got a woman in there, haven't you?”

                “Piss off,” Petyr spat.

                “Would that I could, Baelish. My father sent me, specifically told me that I was not to leave until my business was concluded.”

                “And since when did you care what your father tells you to do?”

                “Since now, evidently.” Petyr ran a hand through his hair again, snarling incoherently under his breath. He knew full well that Tyrion would sit on his doorstep all night if necessary. He pulled the door open wide.

                “Get in the kitchen, don't go anywhere else, and don't touch the Scotch.”

 

He returned to the living room. Sansa had her jumper back on but her hair was still tumbled around her shoulders in a way that called to him to continue irreparably messing it up. She was smiling in an understanding way.

                “I er – heard most of that,” she said. “I should go. I sorted a lift – Margaery is going to come and get me.”

                “Please know that if it were up to me I would have slammed the door in his face and come straight back to you. She smirked at that.

                “Oh, I know.”

                “In a way though, I'm not necessarily sorry. I want to do this at least somewhat properly.” She quirked an eyebrow at that. “Dates. Flowers and so on.”

                “You really don't have to – I am certainly not in need of seduction. But at the same time if it will make you happy, I won't object to a handsome man sending me flowers.”

                “Who else is sending you flowers?” he teased, stepping closer to her and winding his fingers back into her hair. “Tell me,” he breathed, kissing a trail down her jaw. “I know how to destroy people.” She gave a giggle that turned to a gasp as he nipped her neck gently.

                “Oh, you won't be able to destroy him,” she answered, sliding her arms around his neck. They were almost the same height. “He's too clever.”

                “Damn him.” He kissed her again but her phone chimed then.

                “It's Margaery,” she said, glancing down. He walked her to the door and she glanced at her car.

                “You can come by anytime to get it,” he said. “If you let me know, I'll even be here.” She smiled at him. Across the road, a car was idling. “Can I kiss you? Even with your friend over there?” She glanced over to the idling car.

                “She'll tell us to if we don't. She's probably craning her neck to all sorts of angles to get the best view.”

                “Then I suppose we shouldn't disappoint,” he murmured to her, bending his head.

 

He kissed her goodbye and watched her cross the road towards her friend’s car. She shot him a long, sexy look before she got in, and he watched her out of sight. He probably could have stood there all night – but Tyrion had obviously reached the end of his patience.

                “Baelish! For God's sake man!” He groaned aloud but turned to go into the kitchen, trying not to think about how good it might feel to murder Tyrion Lannister with his knife set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Margaery Tyrell will embody all the screaming from the comments ;)


	11. Sansa VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY FOR THE DELAY. 
> 
> Please see notes at end of Chapter 12 for full explanation.

To give Margaery due credit, she did manage to restrain herself until they were out of Petyr's road. Sansa had expected maximum interrogation from the second she sat in the car, possibly accompanied by her grabbing Sansa by the neck until she squealed.

      “So,” Margaery said with deep relish. Sansa groaned.

      “OK, before we start this, I have had three glasses of wine and I am in that kind of drunk/hungry/super horny combination that means I need food to focus.”

      “Drive-thru?” Margaery asked, smirking at her.

      “Please. It's on me, let’s eat mozzarella sticks and gossip.”

      “Oh I can get behind that.” Margaery answered, turning off to take the road back to the high street and the precinct  that held a McDonalds. “Right, what do you want?”

      “I want a double cheeseburger, a large six-piece nugget meal with a Diet Coke and a portion of mozzarella sticks. And then you get whatever you want too.”

      “Wow, you really are hungry. Yeah, hi,” Margaery said, leaning towards the order box. “Can we get a large six-piece nugget meal with diet coke to drink, then a medium Quarter Pounder meal with a Sprite. Also could we get a double cheeseburger and two portions of mozzarella sticks?” They pulled up to the window and Sansa handed over money. Margaery passed her the bag of food and the drinks tray to organise before she pulled into the nearest side street to park up and eat.

      “Oh that's a good burger,” Sansa sighed, leaning back in her seat.

      “Well, I hope it gives you sufficient strength,” Margaery replied. “Because I need details. Copious and preferably filthy ones.”

      “Well you saw most of it,” Sansa hedged.

      “Bullshit did I. What I saw does not explain the astonishing beard burn, the very swollen lips, and that truly amazing sex hair.”

      “What?!” Sansa flipped the car mirror down and stared at herself. “Oh dear Gods.”

      “So, what happened? What were you doing before you requested a lift? And why were you there anyway?”

      “We were watching the Grinch.” Margaery choked on her Sprite. “Well he said he'd never seen it. I considered it a duty to educate him a little.”

      “OK, so you went over to watch a Christmas film. Then what happened?”

      “Well we chatted a little. About various things. Then he made me watch The Blair Witch Project.”

      “You watched a horror film? You hide during the Direct Line adverts with the mafia boss.”

      “I do not,” Sansa said indignantly. And anyway – he was holding me.”

      “Holding you?!” Margaery screeched.

      “Calm down you lunatic. Yes, we – embraced. And we talked about what we wanted for Christmas. And speaking of, I have had a bit of an idea, and I'll need your help to put it into action.”

      “OK, I am intrigued. Go on.”

      “Shopping. Specifically, shopping for lingerie.”

      “Oh you bad, bad girl,” Margaery said, with a deep air of satisfaction. “I have taught you well.”

      “I would more call it rampant corruption.”

      “Are you going to be his Christmas present?”

      “That's the plan.” They finished their food and Sansa turned back to Margaery. “Is my face still really red?”

      “A bit. Here, use this,” Margaery answered, leaning over her to fish her make-up bag out of the glove compartment. “It's not your tone but it'll do. And tie your hair back into a bun, nobody will notice anything.”

 

Margaery dropped her off, promising to make arrangements for a shopping trip. Sansa got in, lied through her teeth about where she'd been and got herself into her room before anyone could probe too deeply. She took the make-up off her face and brushed her hair out. A knock startled her, and she swore under her breath.

      “You decent?” Robb asked through the door.

      “No. Go away.”

      “Not until you tell me who you've been snog -" Sansa tore her door open and dragged Robb inside by the throat.

      “Would you like to say that any louder?!” she demanded angrily.

      “It's fine,” Robb said, massaging his neck. “Mum and Dad are downstairs, Jon's in his room talking to _Ygritte,_ the boys are in bed and Arya is hiding somewhere. So, who has my baby sister been kissing?”

      “Nobody,” she said primly. She knew he wouldn't go for it, but it was still worth a shot. Sure enough, he just hooted at her.

      “Oh, so that is not a beard burn all over your face?”

      “It's a – rash.”

      “A rash.”

      “Yes, a rash. From - Margaery's dog.”

      “Margaery doesn't have a dog. Loras is allergic.” Sansa ground her teeth together.

      “How do you know this shit?”

      “Because I am your big brother, and I consider it my sacred duty to know about your life.”

      “Robb, I'm not telling you anything.”

      “Go on,” he goaded, before he pulled a hideous face. “It's not that cunt Joffrey is it?”

      “Dear Gods, no it is not.”

      “A-ha, so you _have_ been snogging someone.” Sansa growled incoherently at him and he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender before getting off her bed. “Alright, I’ll drop it.”

      “Thank you. Can I go to bed now or would you like to ask me another ninety questions?”

      “You may go to bed.”

 

Robb left her then, and Sansa banged her door behind him with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary. She got ready for bed and when she finally got into it, she found herself wishing for less space in the bed – specifically caused by the presence of another person to share it. She picked her phone off the bedside table and found two messages from Petyr.

 

_Petyr: Once again, I am so very sorry about tonight. It was not how I wanted the night to end. Did you get home OK?_

_Petyr: Thank the Gods, he's gone._

_Sansa: I got home fine thank you. We got mozzarella sticks on the way. It's not your fault Lannister's have awful timing but it's not how I wanted the night to end either._

_Petyr: You should be in my bed right now._

Her eyes widened at the frankness and she smiled to herself, bringing her phone closer and typing out her response.

 

_Sansa: I would have been but you wanted to do things differently. You aren't the only one who is wondering why the bed is so big._

_Petyr: l suffer from a rare psychological disease called being a hopeless cretin. I want you._

_Sansa: I want you too._

_Petyr: Let me take you out. There's a restaurant l know of – La Rosa. Let me buy you dinner._

She had to question that – La Rosa was expensive, almost staggeringly so. Before she could type an insistence that they could just go to Pizza Express or even Wagamamas if he was feeling flush, a second text came.

 

_Petyr: And don't start worrying about it. Tomorrow night, 7pm. I already made a reservation._

_Sansa: Then l would love to come. But l’ve never set foot in La Rosa – is there a dress code?_

_Petyr: Wear something pretty. I'll pick you up but if you want more time before you tell your parents, I’ll wait outside the gates._

_Sansa: Please. It's not that l don't want to tell them but it might take a bit of time._

_Petyr: I understand._

She knew he did, probably better than anyone, but the simple fact was that she wasn't sure how her parents would take this. They'd known Petyr for years, he and her mother had been friends as children. Would they, could they accept him as her partner?

 

She fired off a text to Margaery.

 

_Sansa: Petyr is taking me for dinner at La Rosa tomorrow. Shopping tomorrow – White Rose Centre. Boux Avenue and Quiz are needed._

_Margaery: Ooo, La Rosa! Very fancy. Come pick me up at ten._

The next morning, she was up and dressed by nine and was out the door before any of her siblings were up. Catelyn and Ned had already left for work, so she called an Uber and got her car from Petyr's. His car was already gone, or she might have knocked but oh well. She couldn't win them all. Margaery was almost indecently excited when Sansa picked her up, and immediately gave over to a barrage of questions.

      “What colour are you thinking? Do we need shoes too? What are we doing for lingerie? Sexy yet demure, or are you just going all out revealing the goods? Because depending on the dress, I reckon you could go braless and -"

      “Breathe, Tyrell,” Sansa said, grinning. “I am _not_ going braless.”

      “Good idea, keep him thinking. Now, what about the dress? Low-cut, short, knee length?”

      “I don't even know. I don't know what’s appropriate for La Rosa and Petyr was no help – he just said wear something pretty.”

      “Men are never any help – at least the straight ones. We should have brought Loras, Renly took him to La Rosa for their anniversary. He'd know.”

      “Why, did Loras wear a dress?”

      “No, but he would have noticed.” Sansa snorted.

      “No he wouldn't have. He would have been too busy dribbling all over Renly.”

      “Well if we need him later we can text him,” Margaery answered, undeterred.

 

In the end they didn't need him. In Quiz, they found a beautiful silvery-green dress that positively clung to every damn pore, with a plunging neckline and a modest-length skirt. It was slightly boned too, giving her a shape she'd never seen before on her own body. Margaery had approved it instantly, helping her pick out a pair of forest-green closed-toe stilettos to go with it and instructing her to wear neutral tights.

 

 An utterly shameless Margaery told the sales assistant in Boux Avenue about the events of that night and Sansa's Christmas-gift idea, while Sansa herself hid behind a bra display and prayed for the end of the world. But the assistant was very nice about it, and showed them several very nice pieces and sets and Sansa wound up leaving with a simple black lacy bra and knicker set for that night, as well as stockings at Margaery’s insistence – although she doubted very much that Petyr would actually be seeing under the dress.

 

But for Petyr's Christmas surprise – well that had been something else. She'd firmly vetoed any Santa-baby style things, not wanting to be _too_ Christmassy about it. She wanted him aroused, not laughing at her. Margaery had dissolved into giggles at an outfit that literally comprised of a strip of ribbon, which Sansa had firmly denied even a consideration, but just as she was about to give it all up, Margaery appeared holding a deep blue corset set.

      “It's a bit – obvious,” Sansa said a little nervously.

      “But you would look astonishing in it. And you could wear this under your dress on Christmas Eve, and then find an excuse to sneak away with him.”

      “I more planned to go over to his house on Boxing Day or something,” Sansa answered. “And arrange myself under his Christmas tree.”

      “That's hot, that's hot. Then definitely this. Try it on.” Sansa duly tried it on and even she had to admit it looked damn good. Margaery knocked impatiently on the door. “Let me see, Stark.” Sansa let her in and Margaery wolf-whistled. “Damn girl.”

      “I think it looks good,” Sansa said complacently.

      “Oh it does that. Hell girl, l want to do you, never mind him.”

      “OK, out now,” Sansa said, pointing at the door. “Keep it in your pants, Tyrell.”

      “Do you want to go get a sandwich or something?” Margaery called through the door once she was safely on the other side.

      “Yeah. Then l better head home. Have a bath, work my hair out.”

      “Are you telling your parents where you're going?”

      “Gods no. Would you tell yours? I thought I'd say you and I were going on a girl’s night.”

      “Fine by me – and I'll tell Robb that if he asks.”

      “Thanks,” Sansa said. “Come on, let’s buy this and get going.”

 

Once home, she commandeered the upstairs bathroom to shower, shave, exfoliate and blow-dry her hair. Long before she was done, both Jon and Robb were banging on the door, demanding she surrender the bathroom before they picked the lock. She ended up unplugging the blow-dryer in a huff and storming back to her room, only for both of them to follow her demanding to know why she was getting all dolled up.

      “I’m going out with Margaery,” was the only answer she gave. They grumbled off, but she knew that Robb, at least, suspected that she was lying.

 

She spent ages on her make-up, longer on her hair, reflecting as she did so that she’d never put so much into getting ready for a date before. Maybe it was the pressure of the venue – after all, La Rosa was very, very fancy. It was the kind of place where the ice bucket that came with the wine hung on its own little stand next to the table, instead of on it; the kind of place where the napkins were made of linen, and came with a little ring to hold them in a pretty design; the kind of place where the prices made one’s eyes water and the lighting was dim enough to hide it.

 

Actually, thinking of linen napkins – where was the Lipcote? She painted it on over her lipstick very carefully, waited for it to dry and tested it with a beauty blender. Perfect. Now she wouldn’t smear red lippy all over the glassware, her own face – or Petyr, should the chance arise. She could always nip to the loo to reapply if necessary, she supposed, and tucked both her lipstick and the Lipcote into her grey clutch. It didn’t exactly match her dress, but it would do. He probably wouldn't notice anyway. She was just ready when her phone chimed – he was here _._

 

She threw her phone, keys and money into her clutch, slipped into her shoes and scurried downstairs – running straight into Ned as she was pulling on a jacket.

      “Well, don't you look especially beautiful,” he teased. “Going somewhere nice?”

      “Just out with Margaery,” she lied, feeling a little guilty.

      “Alright. Got your key?”

      “Yes.”

      “Be safe honey,” he said, looking at her a little oddly. “Call me if you want a lift home – no matter what time.”

      “OK Dad.” Even in the heels, she had to reach up to kiss his cheek. “Thanks.”

 

She hurried out, hating the lie but knowing it had to be done, at least for now. Her heartbeat sped up when she saw his car idling across the road and butterflies fluttered about in her stomach. Oh Gods – she was utterly and completely sunk, head over heels and useless. And when she got into his car and he turned to look at her with an expression she could only describe as hunger, she wanted him so badly it ached.

 

If she got through dinner without making a fool of herself, it would be nothing short of a miracle.


	12. Petyr VI

She looked _astonishing_. The black jacket was thrown over a gorgeous silky grey number, something that clung to every inch of her skin. Gods above, he was doomed. With her looking that good, he would be lucky if he got through dinner without jumping on her. Her hair was up, some pretty braided do. While part of him was pleased that he got to admire the neck it exposed, another part mourned the fact that he wouldn't get to wrap her hair around his fists again.

                “You look stunning,” he told her, and she gave him a shy smile.

                “And you look very handsome.”

                “Can I kiss you?” he asked. She nodded almost eagerly, already leaning in. When he pulled back with an appreciative growl in his throat, he noticed her lipstick was still flawless. Women were magic – how the hell had she managed to get that to stay? “Ready to go?” he asked.

                “Absolutely. How did you get a table at La Rosa so quickly?” she asked, as he pulled away from the kerb.

                “I have my ways,” he answered cryptically. She laughed at him.

                “You really didn't have to call in any favours or go to so much trouble,” she said blandly. “I would have been perfectly happy with a Chinese or the local Indian.”

                “I wanted to. And it's on me anyway, so just sit back, relax, and enjoy it.”

                “Petyr, I can pay for my own meal, you don't need to -"

                “But I want to,” he said firmly, glancing over at her. He took a hand off the wheel to rest it on her knee, stroking his thumb over the silky whisper of her tights. “Don't argue, please. I intend to treat you.” She bit her lip.

                “Petyr,” she began again, but he shook his head.

                “It's happening, Sansa.” She threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender, laughing.

                “Alright – but I hate to think of you needing to live off instant noodles or something for the rest of the month because of it.”

 

With a little jolt, he realised she had no idea how much he made – or had in the bank. He had had to admit that a part of him had feared that that was part of her attraction to him – it wouldn't have been the first time a woman had set her sights on Petyr Baelish because of his monetary worth. Women tended to look at him and see flashing pound signs. He had assumed she'd have a rough idea of his monthly take-away, if only because of Catelyn. Or perhaps she did know – and she was trying to convince him that she wasn't in it for the money. He touched her leg again.

                “Don't you worry about that,” he said gently. “I might have to skip the caviar and the lobsters, but I shan't starve. Please – let me treat you.” She nodded, slowly.

                “OK. Thank you. But it's on the condition that sometime, you let me buy you dinner.” He laughed, he really couldn't help it. She was adorable when she was stubborn.

                “I can agree to that. Especially if that means you plan for us to have more dates.”

                “Don't you?” she enquired.

                “I do. Very much so.” She turned her head to look out of her own window but he saw the smile anyway.

 

When he pulled up outside the restaurant, her blue eyes opened widely as a valet hurried forward to open the doors and take the keys from him.

                “Thank you,” he said, handing the keys over and sliding a slightly possessive arm around Sansa's waist. The valet handed him a token, and smiled.

                “Thank you, Mr Baelish. They're ready for you.” He lead Sansa inside before she could question any of that – and he could _see_ the questions forming – and opened the door for her.

 

She did her best to muffle the gasp, but he still heard it. He remembered his own first time coming here - he'd been stunned into silence. A host was already approaching, smile bright in the soft light.

                “Mr Baelish, welcome. May I take your coat, and Miss Stark's jacket?” Sansa looked a little dazed as she slid out of her jacket – and now it was his turn for shock. He hadn't seen the dress yet really, it had been covered by the jacket –but now he saw it properly and she took his breath away. The slight plunge to the neckline exposed a cleavage he wanted to drown in, the swish to the skirt hinted at the length of those legs, the pretty sleeves just covered those shoulders but perfectly accentuated her arms. He only realised he was gaping when she shot him a very amused look, smirking with those red, red lips. He coughed slightly, turning back to the host, who had long since handed off their coats and was simply waiting patiently. “If you’ll follow me,” the host said, “I will show you to your table." He led them through the restaurant, and Petyr put his arm back around Sansa's waist.

                “I told you in the car that you looked stunning,” he murmured. “I take it back. You look perfect, delicious, astonishing.”

                “Stop it,” she murmured back. “You'll make me thinkyou want something.”

                “Oh I do, Sansa.”

 

They were seated as he had requested – in the corner booth, hidden away from any other patron or staff unless they came right up to the booth itself. He let her slide in first, pleased to note that she took the chair that placed her back to the rest of the restaurant, before he took the seat opposite her. The glass centrepiece between them was full of water, and little tealights floated gently on the surface of it. She smiled at him in the candlelight, as the host handed them a menu each and proffered the bottle already in the ice bucket.

                “As requested sir,” he said, filling both glasses. “I shall give you a moment to select your choices.” The host vanished away and Petyrsmiled at Sansa. She did not move to open her menu.

                “I think it's time to admit the truth,” she said, smiling at him.

                “The truth?”

                “The truth,” she confirmed. “What did you do for the owner of this place? Get him off a murder charge? Spare him jail for embezzlement?” He chuckled.

                “I've known him for a very long time - we're old friends. A year or so ago I helped him finalise a tricky divorce in his favour. In exchange, he promised me a table whenever I wanted and elite service.” She raised her eyebrows at him.

                “Ah, so you were the lawyer for Robert Baratheon. I thought as much.” It was his turn to smirk at her.

                “Very clever, Sansa. Very clever indeed. How did you work it out?” She took the smallest of sips of wine before she spoke.

                “You started your career filing papers in a law office – a law office that specialised in family law. You were a junior associate at another law firm once you qualified – and junior associates tend to deal with the minor cases which for most civil law firms are divorces. And who else would find and exploit such a tiny detail in the wording of a pre-nuptial agreement to allow such a clean and concise division of finances – while allowing both Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister  to walk away from it without a stain on their characters, despite the rumours?” Good Gods, that was sexy. He'd known she was clever, he'd known she was intelligent – but this was something else.

                “Have you been Googling me?” he asked, sipping his wine.

                “No,” she said. “You have your sources, and I have mine. So,” she continued, picking up her menu, “do you have a recommendation for dinner?” He watched her scan the menu and frown slightly before she leant forward. “Petyr – there are no prices.”

                “It's a set price for three courses,” he answered. “Don't you fret about that. I can recommend the ravioli. I think you'd enjoy it – oh, and don't worry about peanuts either. I made them aware.”

                “Petyr – you remembered?”

                “Of course I did.”

                “That's – very sweet of you. Then I shall have that,” she said. “What will you get?”

                “The scallops to start, I think. Then the lamb.”

                “I was thinking of the lamb too,” she said, smiling at him.

 

Once they had ordered, and the waiter had left once more, he leant forward towards her.

                “So, you seem to know a startling amount about me,” he said, smiling when she smirked. “Shall we see what I know about you?”

                “I'd be very curious to hear your interpretation.”

                “Let's see,” he said, sipping wine slowly. “There's the brains of course –your exam results last year were exemplary. English Literature, Law, History and Governmental Politics. You're the only student in your year to carry all four subjects up to A2 Level – and it's because you're too stubborn to give up. You're going to University to study law, but you have no intention of going to the same university as your brother and cousin – you want a little freedom, the kind that doesn't necessarily come when you have two older brothers – to all intents and purposes anyway - in the background.And under the good-girl exterior you spent so many years honing, there's a wild streak too. The kind of wild streak that seems to draw you to –inadvisable individuals.” She smirked, leaning in.

                “You are not inadvisable,” she told him, her voice low. “You're bad news.”

                “And you're forbidden fruit,” he answered, saw her blush spread and claimed it as a victory.

                “You did miss out something.”

                “What?”

                “Fashion design,” she answered. “Call it a hobby, but I do have interests outside of academia. Margaery does it at sixth form and she teaches me. We design together.” He hadn't known that about her.

                “What do you design?”

                “I do – and this might make me sound psychotic but I swear it has no bearing on our situation – bridal wear. Margaery likes doing more everyday wear – dresses, coats, shirts and so on.”

                “Then why not carry it to A-Level?” he enquired, leaning back in his chair as food arrived.

 

Once they had been served and Sansa was taking a cautious sample of her ravioli, he resumed their conversation.

                “So, why not carry fashion design to the next level?” he enquired. She didn't answer right away, and he realised why – there was an expression on her face that he was rather jealous of. Pure, unadulterated ecstasy. _He_ should be causing those expressions.

                “This is amazing,” she murmured, almost reverentially. “My Gods.” He smiled at her. There was something sexy about watching her enjoy something so thoroughly.

                “Try this,” he said, cutting a piece of his scallop and holding it to her lips. She consumed it directly from his fork – with eye-contact. “That's good,” she said, smiling. “But mine's better.” She speared a piece of her own ravioli and offered it, and he tried it. It _was_ good, actually. He'd always had the scallops when he came here, but perhaps it was time for a change.

                “Wait until you try the lamb,” he said, eyeing her.

                “Sorry,” she said, obviously coming back to reality a little. “Um, fashion design. Well, a number of reasons really. It's damn hard to get into the industry, you need to spend a lot of time creating a portfolio and pitching it and there's a constant pressure to have new designs. Plus it's a fickle industry - it's hard to earn a living at it. Like publishing your own books - there's rarely a line between astoundingly successful and struggling to get by. Practically, one needs a decent job. I intend to be a lawyer, and who's to say I couldn't do fashion on the side? But I’m practical enough to know it's not a guaranteed career – so why not just remove the risk?” He admired that – to a certain extent.

                “Would your parents not help?” She shrugged.

                “Of course they would, but I want to live my own life. Support myself and so on.” He fell in love with her right there.

 

Her family was rich enough for her to pursue what could very well be a dead-end – and she wouldn't even consider it as an option. She would plan her own route, make her own way – and ensure she could make enough money to survive whilst she did so. Gods, he was doomed. Varys would have a fit when he found out about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. 
> 
> So. I have personal home life issues. Not big drama, but time consuming and costly. 
> 
> I wanted to at least give you guys - who have been so sweet and so nice - these two chapters before I break the news that I need a break. I will return with updates on Friday 18th May - but I need to put my life first right now. I really hope you guys understand :-) 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the love shown for this fic so far. 
> 
> Also, please forgive formatting - this has been updated via mobile. I will go back and fix it when my shitty laptop obeys orders again.


	13. Sansa VII

The meal was _dazzling._ The lamb was falling off the bone, succulent and delicious. He watched her intently, and far from making her uncomfortable or self-conscious, it made her _hot._ She wondered if he was the type to object to sex in his car.

 

To hell with waiting for Christmas – she wanted to consume him, be consumed, to wrap around him and burn up. And judging by that kiss on his sofa – well, when they did eventually sort out their timing – and the timing of _other_ people – it would be some damn hot sex.

He most _definitely_ wanted her. Margaery, Godsdamn her straight to hell, had been right about him. He was interested. And while a part of her still occasionally thought he would fuck her once to have the bragging rights of having fucked an eighteen year old, this dinner alone would have dispelled that particular little worry. Men did not take women to restaurants like this if they just wanted a night of fun and games.He was smiling at her again, leaning forward over the table after they cleared away the plates.

                “Are you having a good time?”

                “The best,” she said earnestly. “I mean – this is _amazing._ The food is delicious, this place is beautiful and it doesn't hurt that you're very, very handsome in that suit.” He smirked at her.

                “You flatter me, Sansa.”

                “Your suit,” she flashed back. “A well-tailored suit is a staple every man seeking to impress should own.”

                “Bespoke,” he said. “And I'm glad it's making an impression on you.” She smiled suddenly, a line from a sitcom flashing through her mind.

                “Margaery would tell you it would look better on my bedroom floor.” He snorted his laughter, raised his glass.

                “Parks and Rec.”

                “You know it?”

                “Of course, Sansa. I might not be completely up to date with what passes as popular culture, but equally I have not been living under a _rock_.” He took a sip of wine. “I've been looking at your Instagram again.”

                “Remind me to privatise that.”

                “Don't you dare,” he said, voice dark. She felt a surprising fissure of excitement go through her at his voice taking on that cadence. Maybe she wasn't such a straightforward sex-type, because imagining him using that voice in a more intimate setting – well. She shifted slightly, felt a little dart of _pleasure,_ damn near gasped. And he saw it, she knew he saw it – because suddenly there was a slightly dangerous look in his eye. “Are you quite well?” he asked. She nodded.

                “Perfectly fine,” she said.

 

This just wouldn't do, she decided. He had all the power suddenly, and that simply wasn't going to fly. She was still a player in this game, and it was more than time he knew it. Beneath the table, she slid a foot out of her stiletto – thank the Gods Margaery had persuaded her that pump-style was better than strappy. A waiter had appeared, talking about dessert. And she slid her stocking-clad foot forward until it had made contact with his leg. She saw the slight shock that passed through him, but it was his own damn fault for teasing. She slid her foot higher, glad for the first time that she was so tall and the table so intimate. She looked completely normal as her foot danced past his knee. He didn't though. The waiter was completely unaware, still running through the dessert options.

                “Is the pine needle sorbet peanut free?” she enquired, smiling at the waiter. Petyr had assured her earlier that he'd made them aware, but it was always good to make certain.

                “Oh yes, ma'am. All the desserts I have offered are. Your – dining companion made us aware of your allergy.” Dining companion, eh?

                “Isn't he _sweet?_ ” she asked, turning her gaze to Petyr as she slipped her foot along the inside of his thigh. She felt him widen his stance and restrained a grin with _exceptional_ difficulty – as she began to withdraw her foot. He swallowed visibly.

                “And all these desserts are included,” the waiter added. She began her progress again, this time up his other leg, now using the back of her foot.

                “Then I would like the pine needle sorbet, please,” she said, smiling deeply at the man.

                “Excellent choice, ma'am. For the gentleman?” At that exact second, Sansa skimmed her foot over the crotch of Petyr's trousers – and felt his cock jump. Petyr made a strangled sound that he disguised as a cough as she pressed _ever so lightly_ forward.

                “The – the mint cocoa brownie,” he said. She withdrew her foot, placing it back in the stiletto as best as she could without drawing attention to what she was doing. The waiter smiled.

                “Perfect. They will be but a moment.”

                “Could we get some water?” Petyr asked. He was driving, she remembered – which explained why he'd only sipped at his single glass of wine, while pouring her a second.

                “Certainly sir.” The waiter raised one hand in an elegant signal, and a second waiter appeared with a jug of iced water and two water glasses. She accepted a glass too, and waited for both waiters to disappear. As soon as they were gone, Petyr turned a burning gaze onto her.

                “You are playing with a fire you fail to fully understand,” he said, his voice slightly choked. She batted her eyelashes at him, doing her best to appear all innocent and confused.

                “I'm certain I don't understand what you mean,” she answered, sipping her water.

                “Vixen,” he hissed at her. “Just wait.” She leant forward.

                “Careful Mr Baelish,” she murmured. A flash lit his eyes, and she restrained a smirk. Oh, he got so riled when she called him that. “Verbal promises can be accepted and considered as binding.”

 

He looked like he was considering a fit of apoplexy, or perhaps a minor stroke – but their desserts arrived and she sat back. She quite deliberately made a very obvious _mmmm_ sound when she took her first bite. Not that it needed to be exaggerated – the sorbet was delicious. It actually tasted _clean_ – or how she imagined clean might taste. His cake looked like it was oozing richness. She scooped a little sorbet onto her spoon, held it out temptingly.

                “You should try this,” she said, staring right at him. “It's delicious.” He looked from her to the sorbet.

                “I can think of things I would infinitely prefer to taste.”

                “Taste it,” she instructed. “Good boys get rewards.” He closed his eyes for one second, then tasted it. He offered her a bite of his cake. The fresh sweetness of the mint crème contrasted with the hint of richness from the cocoa and her own eyes fluttered closed. “Oh, that – that is _beautiful._ ”

                “Isn't it just,” he murmured.

 

Once dessert had been cleared away, she excused herself quietly, found the bathroom – and took several deep breaths before she reapplied her lipstick and the Lipcote. She had the kind of plan that required a friend's advice and final approval.

 

_Sansa: In the toilets at La Rosa. Dinner was pretty much orgasmically good. I played footsie with him. Is taking off my knickers and slipping them into his pocket tacky or hot?_

Margaery got back to her pretty much instantly.

 

_Margaery: It's hot. And YOU are a sick woman, Sansa Stark. I am super proud of you right now._

Her heart was beating an erratic tattoo against her ribs as she returned to the table – with her knickers in her clutch. She wondered if it was normal to think everyone could tell she was no longer wearing panties. When she reached their table again, he was tucking his wallet away, and she frowned at it.

                “I intended to argue further about the bill,” she muttered, retaking her seat.

                “Which is why I paid in your absence,” he informed her. “Do you want a coffee or anything else?”

                “Oh no. It's too late for coffee.”

                “Good, because I already asked them to bring the car round,” he murmured, standing. A waiter materialised with their coats, and he held hers out to help her into it. The car was pulling up just as the left the restaurant, and the valet slid out smoothly. Sansa saw the exchange of money, but didn't ask as a different valet opened her door for her.She slipped into her seat, discreetly adjusted her skirt to drape it over her thighs but leave her knees free – perhaps for his hand, if he was so inclined. She was fairly certain he would be – and his grip of the wheel when he got into the car beside her just confirmed it. She had him _exactly_ where she wanted him.

 

As they pulled away from the restaurant, she spoke.

                “I had a wonderful time tonight, Petyr,” she said. “Thank you.” His hands flexed on the steering wheel.

                “You are a godsdammned _witch,_ sweetling,” he growled, staring straight ahead. Sweetling? That sounded like a pet name to her.

                “Did you not have a wonderful time?” she enquired, all sweetness and light.

                “You know perfectly well it was wonderful _torture._ ” She laughed. Emboldened by desire, by wine, good food and his obvious tension, she shifted her position, crossed one knee over the other – and her dress slipped back perfectly to expose the lace of her stocking-top. It might have been designed for this exact moment. He glanced down as she moved.

                “Woman,” he damn near spat. “Are you wearing _stockings_?”

                “And a garter belt.”

 

The only answer he gave was to flex his hands so tight she heard the creak of the leather on the wheel.

                “You are making this exceptionally difficult.” He was biting off the words, but she knew it was not anger fuelling him. The bulge in the front of his impeccable suit trousers told her that. As she checked their location, she knew he was heading back towards her house – she did not have long.

                “What am I making difficult, Mr Baelish?”

                “Sansa -" That was a groan. Petyr Baelish, the immaculate, put-together, king of control Petyr Baelish, was groaning _her_ name. And to think, she'd barely even touched him yet. He hadn't touched her at all – and she could feel herself getting wetter. Control, she decided right there, was an absolutely _delicious_ dish to taste. It was something new about her anyway – she had to wonder how far he'd let her take control.

 

Unbidden, uninvited, and entirely _new_ , an image of him handcuffed to the headboard of a bed skipped into her brain. Would he _let_ her do that? Would she want to, if the opportunity arose? Her arousal said that yes, she most definitely would want to – and she would most definitely enjoy it.

                “Would you like to know a secret, Mr Baelish?” she enquired softly. She had to get the name of the wine they'd drunk. She felt braver, sexier, more confident than she'd ever felt in her entire life.

                “ _Please_ -" He was _begging._ She bent to the floor of the car, came back up with her clutch as he pulled up opposite the gates of her driveway.

 

The black wisp of lace was barely visible in the twilight of the car – but from the second she draped them oh-so-carefully over his thigh, she knew he knew what it was. She unbuckled her seatbelt, leant in to whisper in his ear.

                “Consider them a promise,” she murmured. She slid her hand into his hair, turned his face to hers, kissed him firmly, deeply.

 

He kissed her back, she could almost _taste_ his desperation. She drew back, leant back, put distance between them.

                “Good night Petyr,” she said, then added in a tone she hoped sounded authoritative, “Tell me when you get home and touch yourself thinking about me.”


	14. Petyr VII

He damn near came in his boxers like a fucking teenager when she draped her knickers over his thigh and he realised that it meant she must have removed them _in the restaurant_. He damn near begged when she looked at him with heated eyes and asked – no, _told_ , there was absolutely nothing resembling a _request_ in her tones – to be told when he touched himself. Sansa Stark was going to be his death, he was absolutely certain. At least he'd die a happy, happy man.

 

He'd come damn close to cracking when her foot had started skating up his leg and then pressed against his cock. If he'd had less control, and if that waiter hadn't been right there – well, who knew where it would have ended? He thought there was a very definite possibility that he would have crawled under the table and kissed her feet. Of course, it had been deliberate –she had known that he couldn't react or do anything in retaliation, precisely because they had company. He admired her guts, the absolute confidence of her. And the control she'd snatched from him had felt glorious. How he got home without ploughing his car into a wall or tree was absolutely beyond him, but he made it – just as his phone chimed. He got inside before anything else, before even checking the message, her lacy excuse for a pair of knickers balled in his fist.

 

When he got his front door shut and leant against it to try and stop his legs from trembling, he risked a glance. He expected text, a written account – instead he got a picture. A picture of her stocking-clad legs, creamy skin against black lace, garter belt pulled low to conceal that she was no longer in possession of her knickers. And – oh Gods. She'd removed the bra too, used red hair brought forward over her shoulders to at least partially obscure her breasts. It provided enough cover to leave her nipples to the imagination, but little enough to be absolute torture. What in the name of the heavens was she trying to do to him? Did she want him to die? And why, _why_ did he have to be so set on doing the thing properly that he had just taken her straight home? Why hadn't he at least floated the possibility of a nightcap, at least _attempted_ to engineer a situation where the possibility that he could have got his hands on that creamy skin existed? His fingers were moving over the keypad before he could process it, his free hand squeezing his cock through his trousers.

_Petyr: Please stop torturing me._

_Sansa: Didn't you like the picture?_

_Petyr. I'd like it a hell of a lot better if it was real life, and you were right in front of me._

_Sansa: Are you touching yourself, Petyr?_

He groaned aloud, dropping his head back to bang against the door. How the fuck did she know? How the hell had all this managed to slip out of his control so fast? Unsteady legs carried him to his bedroom, got him just as far as the bed before his free hand wrestled with his belt.

 

_Petyr: No. Are you?_

_Sansa: No._

_Sansa: Show me._

He absolutely did not have to. He could ignore her, tell her no way, not a chance, he could tell her he'd seen some of the consequences of intimate pictures being shared. He could tell her that he'd never sexted in his life, tell her he had no plans to start now, tell her he didn't take orders from eighteen year olds –oh, there were a thousand possible responses.

 

One of them was sending her a picture of his cock. And that was, of course, the one he went with as his option.

 

His phone rang in his hand – and it was her.

                “Petyr,” she said, her voice perfectly, utterly level. “Be honest with me – tell me what you'd be doing to me, right now, if I was standing in front of you.”

                “You wouldn't still be standing,” he informed her. “Because I would have had you pushed up against the first convenient wall and fucked you senseless.” He still had some kind of power. He had more experience than she did, he knew how to play these games. He could still snatch this conversation back under his control. She laughed, a little breathy sound, and he spoke again before she could. “You would have paid for what you did in that bloody restaurant.”

                “Is that a fact, Mr Baelish?” Gods, again with Mr Baelish.

                “It is a fact,” he said firmly. He was trying to avoid actually touching himself, knowing that if he did she would know and he'd lose – but Gods, it was a bloody hard determination to keep his hands off himself. He was so hard it was fucking painful. “Because naughty, teasing little _minxes_ need to be punished when they do something like remove their knickers in two-Michelin-star restaurants – and when they take such shameful advantage of long table cloths to do something as brazen as press against a man's cock.” He heard her breathing hitch. “I am going to fuck you,” he promised. “As soon as I get a damn chance.”

                “Who says you'd get to pick the venue? Perhaps I have plans for you." He listened close a moment, heard the buzz in the background.

                “Are you touching yourself?” he demanded.

                “Technically? No.” He took the deepest breath he could into lungs that suddenly felt crushed. He rephrased his question.

                “Is there something touching you?”

                “Yes.”

                “A toy? Are you fucking yourself with some poor rubber imitation that you _know_ isn't half as good as my cock?”

                “Y – yes.” He heard the stutter and he would have made holy vows that he had not moved his hand – but for all that it was suddenly wrapped around his cock.

                “Tell me what you're thinking of. Tell me what filthy, depraved thoughts that mind is coming up with whilst you fuck yourself,” he commanded.

                “Ah, _Petyr,_ fuck – it – it keeps changing.”

                “Tell me.”

                “There's two – two thoughts. You bending me over the back of your sofa, facing that – that mirror in the corner of your living room.” His cock twitched in his hand, he gripped firmer, started moving.

                “Are you watching us?” he asked hoarsely, well beyond caring that she'd hear the change in his voice, would know he'd cracked.

                “You - you're making me. Hand wrapped in my hair, pulling my head back. And – and your free hand – spanking me as you fuck me, all I can do is cling on to the sofa as – _oh, Gods, there!_ – Petyr!”

                “Don't come yet,” he snapped. “What's the other thought?”

                “I – I – ugh, _fuck_ \- I've handcuffed you to your bed. And – and you can't move, because I said not to. And I'm riding your cock, so slowly while you beg me for more, for me to move faster –oh Gods!”

 

He was spilling into his hand as he heard her come, the unmistakable sound of strangled pleasure when someone is attempting to keep quiet. He had no such concerns, grunted his orgasm, her name spilling from him.

 

For quite a long time, the only sound he heard was her breathing, rapid and harsh as she came down from her high. When she did speak, there was a shyness to her voice he found damn near adorable.

                “Was that alright?” He could practically see her, still flushed, sprawled over her bed in the aftermath, searching for reassurance and petting. He burned for her, longed to be able to reach out and touch her, to scoop her close and feel her breasts against his chest.

                “Sansa, that was the hottest experience of my life.” She giggled then.

                “I've never done that before,” she said, as if she was giving him a huge secret. His heart quickened at the thought that he had been her first for this. Whatever happened now, she was completely and irrevocably his – whether anyone else liked it or not. Sansa Stark was his, godsdamnit, and that was that.

                “Well, you're a godsdamned wonder.” A thought crossed his mind and he swallowed suddenly. “Sansa – I have to ask – are you -"

                “A virgin?” she queried, her voice cutting in as his trailed off. He nodded before remembering she couldn't see him, but she was talking before he could. “No, I'm not.” A pause, then, “Are you?” He snorted with sudden laughter, heard her giggle too.

                “No, what?”

                “Just checking. I should – get some sleep,” she whispered.

                “I too.”

                “Are - Margaery's sleeping over here tomorrow night,” she said, regret coating her voice.            “But – could you get away from work? I want to see you.”

                “Yes,” he said immediately. He would have said yes even if someone had assassinated the Prime Minister and they needed him to personally prosecute the guilty party. “Meet me at one-thirty, my place – unless you were thinking more of a lunch date?” Christ, he hoped not.

                “No, but you can always make me coffee,” she answered. “I assume you possess a kettle and mugs.”

                “I do. One- thirty then.”

                “One-thirty. Goodnight – Petyr.”

                “Good night, Sansa.”

 

Christmas Eve was still a day away. He wasn't entirely sure he was going to make it through the next twenty-four hours alive – especially if he dared to imagine what kind of horrendous torture she might have planned for him tomorrow. He washed his hands, brushed his teeth, climbed into his bed and glanced at his headboard.

 

She wouldn't be able to handcuff him to that, it was solid. Perhaps he should invest in a new one. Yes, definitely. Had she asked him to pick his preferred fantasy, he would have seriously struggled. His previous preference had been for control, to order and dictate – but the mere thought of her actually carrying out her depraved little fantasy was enough to make his spent cock twitch feebly against his pyjama trousers. Oh yes, he preferred control – just apparently when it came to Sansa, he just wasn't too picky about being the one who wielded it.

 

Seven hells, he was in trouble now. Deep trouble, and its name was Sansa Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you ALL for the love shown over the past few days. It has been so, so wonderful to hear such nice things from you all and to hear such sweet well-wishes.
> 
> I am not 100% yet - but the prescribed steroid, while literally making me look like Shrek, has worked, and I am back on antibiotics to hopefully clear up the last lingering threads of yuckiness. THerefore, barring sudden and violent relapse, updates will now resume as normal :)
> 
> Thank you again for how understanding you've all been, and I hope you enjoyed these two chapters :)


	15. Sansa VIII

She'd never come so hard or so beautifully in her life. And if Margaery was right about anything in life, it was that Sansa was a prolific masturbator. She knew how to do it for a speedy orgasm, three minutes of quick, needy release. She knew how to do it slow, draw it out for an hour sometimes, tease and withdraw, tease and withdraw. But fucking herself frantically with a bright pink Rabbit-brand vibe while Petyr's voice soaked through her phone speaker and into her bones was a whole new damn thing.

 

She had asked to see him, laid herself bare and vulnerable in the request and he had immediately agreed, immediately said yes, suggested _his place_ and all that might imply. And she couldn't really breathe because when the two of them _did_ stop fucking with each other's heads and just _fucked_ it was going to be one of those earth stopping, oh-shit-my- _heart_ moments. Worst thing was that she knew it already.

 

Oh, Gods damn it and Gods damn her.

 

She woke up the next morning with renewed excitement. Both her parents were off to work, so all she had to do was get herself past Jon and Robb – and Arya, if she wasn't off somewhere with Gendry. She shaved again, despite not needing to really, just wanted to be absolutely _sure_ that she was ready no matter what happened. She chose what she mentally termed as _nice_ underwear, scarlet silk with darker burgundy lace ruffling at the legs of the knickers and the edges of the bra, slipped a ribbed black polo neck and slim-fit black jeans over it, teamed it with black boots. She left her hair down – she would have to be completely vacant to not realise he preferred her hair loose. It was something she happy to indulge, happy to let him enjoy – for as long as she got to enjoy him too. For example, if he ever shaved the beard off, she'd never wear her hair down again.

 

Her siblings were gathered in the living room, arguing noisily about a film.

                “And I'm the oldest, and we are _not_ watching the bloody _Emoji_ movie.”

Well it needs to be OK for Rickon, doesn't it, we can hardly watch _Dawn of the Dead -"_

 _“_ Zombies!!” Rickon yelled excitedly. Robb spied her through the door.

                “Sans! Come and act as tie-break. _Aladdin_ or _Brave_?”

                “Brave,” she answered absently, rummaging in the hall cupboard to find her coat. “But I'm going out – last minute Christmas shopping.”

                “You go out a lot these days,” Robb said, suspiciously.

                “Well Robb, I appreciate that you don't do anything, ever, but some of us have _lives_ ,” she deadpanned. Arya hooted.

                “She's going to meet a man, bet you anything,” she said, not taking her eyes off the TV screen.

                “Uh-huh, sure. And how is Gendry, Arya?” Her sister went a fiery red.

                “Shut up!”

                “I'll be back when I'm back,” she told Robb. “I expect the shops will be busy.”

                “Whatever,” her brother said, waving a hand. “Got everything?”

                “Phone, keys, purse, yes. It's a food run for Christmas Eve so if anyone wants anything from the market, text me,” she called from the front door. Answering noises of agreement reached her before she slipped out.

 

Jon caught up to her by her car, catching her hand and grinning at her.

                “You _are_ going to meet a man, aren't you?” She eyed him speculatively. Jon wasn't Robb, or Arya – she knew he was absolutely capable of keeping his mouth shut.

                “What gives you that impression?”

                “There's this – _happiness._ Like you'll be sat in the living room all bundled up with Rickon or Bran, or just fiddling with your phone – and you just – light up. Like you remembered something great.” She sighed.

                “Get in the car, Jon.” He slid into her passenger seat, waited patiently while she squirmed herself into a comfortable spot. “There is a guy,” she said quietly, knowing as she spoke that it was a wholly inadequate description of Petyr. “But it's – complicated.”

                “Because he's older?”   

                “What the fuck?” she demanded. “How did you -"

                “Lucky guess. Who is it?”

                “Petyr Baelish.” There was a pause, then Jon burst out laughing.

                “Mum owes Dad a tenner and a bottle of his favourite whiskey,” he said.

                “ _What_? You all – you _knew_? And you've been betting?”

                “Mum and Dad have been betting,” he corrected.

                “How did you know?” she bleated, irritated now.

                “Dad guessed, started theorising – and last night just confirmed it.”

                “Do you mean _last night,_ or do you mean a certain brunette called _Margaery Tyrell._ ”

                “No, Robb called Margaery – she was very good cover. Loras, on the other hand –“ She glared out her windscreen. “I texted him, pretending you'd left something here, and he replied saying he hadn't seen hide nor hair of you and that Margaery was sitting on the sofa painting her toenails.”

                “OK, so Loras needs to die, got it. But how did you know it was Petyr?”

                “Well we didn't _know_ ,” he said reasonably. “Dad reckoned –something about how you were all weird at some dinner he came to and then started going all – sneaky. Mum just said she'd have noticed if it was him because they work together. Hence the bet.”

                “Do they – do they mind?”

                “Well, I think they'd prefer it if he wasn't quite so – advanced. But you're obviously happy, and he's not Joffrey.” She snorted at that, and Jon gave her a grin. “My point is that Dad doesn't want to know anything he doesn't have to and Mum – Mum is just going to be annoyed that she lost.” She blew out a breath.

                “You can piss off now,” she said, starting the car. “Oh, and I really do need to pop to the market after, so – let me know.” He laughed, jumped out, and she drove away with her cheeks absolutely scarlet.

 

She had to wait outside Petyr's, as she was on the early side and he was a couple of minutes late. She waited in the car, which meant she got to get out as he strode towards her. His lips were coming down on hers before she could even say hello, and she smiled at the neediness of his kiss. Hot, hard and hungry – like their entire flirtation. His body crowded hers, pressing her back against her car door as he slid his hands into her hair and kissed her senseless. There was just enough of her brain left functioning to realise that when she wore flat shoes, they were exactly the same height.

 

He groaned against her lips, drew back and she smiled at him, hoping she wasn't _too_ flushed.

                “You are a sight for sore eyes, sweetling,” he said.

                “And you're getting terribly bold, kissing me in broad daylight on a public street.”

                “Says the woman who had her foot pressed into my cock during dinner.” She did her best to smirk, despite feeling her cheeks heat up.

                “I have to tell you something,” she said, leaning in for another kiss. “My parents know about us.” She saw the look of concern, although he was quick to pull it back.

                “Catelyn didn't – oh Gods, is your father going to come after me with a bat to defend his precious daughter's honour?” She giggled.

                “No, don't be silly. If I tell you that there was a bet on about it, does that reassure you that they don't mind?”

                “It does, oddly enough.” Sansa shivered then - he'd moved away when he'd questioned whether there was going to be a Ned-bat scenario to deal with. “Let's go inside,” he said, obviously noticing the shiver. He let them in and she shrugged out of her coat and remembered to remove her boots. “So – they really don't mind. Because honestly Sansa, if it were _my_ daughter proposing to date a man thirty years her senior -" She'd welcomed herself into his living room while he rambled, and she smiled up at his from where she sat on his sofa.

                “Would daddy be upset?” she teased. His nostrils flared slightly.

                “Sansa, I _strongly_ recommend you don't call me that if you require reason and comprehension from me.” She filed that little bit of information safely into what Margaery would probably call the _wank bank_ and just smiled up at him. She reached out, took his hand, tugged him down to join her. He sat, but didn't snuggle. That was most definitely not going to do, so she decided it might be worth messing with him. She crawled closer, raised one hand to slide it into his hair. She tipped his head back like that, pressed her lips to the column of his throat.

                “The words used by Jon were that it would be their preference if you weren't so _advanced_.”

                “Sansa,” he muttered. “Have you actually spoken to your parents yet?”

                “No, not yet.” She kept kissing, occasionally nipping gently at the throat he kept open for her attentions. Bless him though. “I will though. Tonight. But I don't think they'll mind.”

                “How do you – _fuck, Sansa –_ know that if you haven't spoken to them?” She moved on from the patch of skin beneath his jaw she'd been focusing on teasing with her teeth and tongue, admired the way it had reddened.

                “Because they bloody well would have spoken to me if they did have a problem – and they wouldn't have been making bets, either.”

                “I should talk to Catelyn when I get back to the office,” he said, then grunted his surprise as she reared onto her knees and straddled his lap. His hands settled on her hips, dragged her close. She felt a little thrill to feel something stir at his crotch. She ground down gently.

                “You shouldn't worry so much,” she whispered.

                “Sansa, please,” he begged. Oh definitely begged, there was no possible mistake about that tone. She hid her smirk against his lips, kissed him hard.

                “How long do we have?” she whispered when it was done. He tore his eyes from her to consult his watch.

                “Twenty minutes,” he groaned. “Which is nowhere near enough time for all the things I desperately want to do to you right now.” His hands were sliding up her jumper, dancing over the skin covering the dip of her spine.

                “Tell me,’ she said, closing her eyes at the electricity that travelled in the path of his fingers.

                “I want you sat just like this, without the clothes – or without _your_ clothes anyway.”

                “Are you still wearing your suit?” she breathed into his ear.

                “Absolutely.”

                “Good. All I ever want to do when I see you like this is mess up that impeccable smart look you have – run my fingers through your hair, undo your buttons – and jump you exactly like this. I love the idea of you having to work with a bruised neck or swollen lips, everyone knowing someone was fucking you senseless.”

                “Gods, Sansa.”

                “Yes, Petyr?”

                “Don't say that as if you don't bloody _know_ what.”

                “I love teasing you,” she whispered to him. “You get this look in your eye, wild and burning and you have _no idea_ how wet it makes me. I always want to keep pushing until you forget about everything but fucking me senseless.” His hands slid from her waist to her arse, pulled her hard against his _very_ interested cock and ground her down against him. She moaned aloud as it rubbed against her, bucked her own hips.

                “Will you – may I – please take your clothes off.” A thrill shot through her at his open request – and she was not so cruel as to refuse. Besides which, if she _did_ get naked, he would almost certainly be late back to work – and that was a thought that amused her greatly: the great Petyr Baelish late for work because of sex. She pulled off her jumper without getting off his lap – and had to admit to being greatly impressed when he didn't immediately grab at her breasts. Instead he leant forward, bent his head to kiss her collarbone and traced her shoulder with one hand. “It was your shoulder's that got me thinking about you,” he said, almost conversationally. “You came into the office one day with a slouchy jumper on, it slipped down over one shoulder – and I wanted to see _more._ ” She damn near giggled at that.

                “My _shoulders?_ Not my breasts, or my bum, or legs?”

                “Too obvious,” he muttered, staring up at her. “Although I absolutely cannot deny that your breasts are perfect.”

 

One slender finger trailed down the strap of her bra, tracing the very edge of the skin before the cups hid it from him. She mewled. Gods, he'd barely even touched her.

                “Take your trousers off too,” he told her, and it was _told._ All begging had gone from his voice. She had to get up to take them off, and despite the simple fact that it was very difficult to elegantly, she couldn't get them off fast enough. She was twisting a hand behind her back to remove the bra when he spoke again. “Leave the lingerie.” His eyes were dragon-fire hot. She left it, made to climb back into his lap. “Ah – wait.” She stayed standing, hands by her sides.

 

His eyes swept over her several times, and, teasingly, she drew her own hands up to trail down her cleavage and stomach.

                “Do you see something you like, Mr Baelish?”

                “Oh yes. Very much so. You are a work of art, Sansa. All creamy skin and endless, endless legs. Come here – over my lap again, but face away from me.”

 

She did it, although the position was somewhat awkward. It was fortunate that Petyr's sofa was so deep, so she could stretch her legs open over his thighs, squeaking in surprise as he shifted too. She was sat now _between_ his legs, her legs held open by her knees hooked over his thighs. His hands returned to her, wandering stomach, arms, thighs, always avoiding where she so desperately _needed_ him to touch her. She squirmed in his lap.

                “Please, Petyr,” she whined.

                “Please what?” His breath was warm as the whisper ghosted over her neck.

                “Touch me!” His chuckle was like molten chocolate, rich, _dark,_ decadent.

                “I _am_ touching you, sweetling.”

                “Touch me properly.”

                “Say it,” he hissed suddenly. “Tell me where to touch you.”

                “Touch my breasts,” she ordered – or as close to an order as her heated brain could manage. He obliged immediately, his hands sliding the straps of her bra down to free her breasts from the cups.

                “Perfect. It's like the Gods made these,” he whispered, his fingers squeezing firmly before he plucked her nipples very gently. She cried out, arching into his touch. “Made them specifically to fit my hands. And so responsive.”

                “Petyr,” she whimpered. She was wriggling in his lap now.

                “Yes, sweetling? Do you need more?”

                “Need – need – touch my pussy, Petyr, please.” A choked gasp came from behind her, and she capitalised at once. “It's so wet, Petyr, please,” she murmured, turning her head where it rested on his shoulder, rubbing his throat with her nose. “It needs touching. I want you to push my knickers aside and fuck me until I’m screaming. I’ve been thinking about it for so long, when I touch myself at night, imagining it's your hands, your fingers fucking into me, making me moan so loud I have to bite my pillow so I don't scream - don't you want to make me scream for you Mr Baelish?”


	16. Petyr VIII

He could only imagine she was batting her eyelashes at she spoke. One thing was for damn sure - Sansa Stark saying _don't you want to make me scream for you, Mr Baelish?_ was going to soundtrack his dreams for years. If he wasn't entirely certain that it would give him some kind of embolism, he might have been cruel enough to deny her. Her head was cradled in his shoulder and he turned to kiss her hair. If he had his way, she would never tie it back again. He laid his palm against her cunt, and she jumped, pressed forward instantly.

                “Is this what you want?” he demanded hoarsely, pressing against her slit. The silk of her knickers was wet already, and by Gods, that made him feel powerful. He had done this to her, reduced her to this already.

                “Yes, Petyr, please -" She was squirming against his hand, and his patience for their games snapped.

 

He pulled the silk covering her aside, ran one finger up her slit. Her hips jerked, she whined, his free hand holding her tight against him. His fingers found her clit, touched gently as she mewled in pleasure.

                “Don't hold back,” he warned. “I want to hear you.” He drew out the tease, kept his touch against her light, brushed and lingered and stroked gently as she squirmed and wriggled and gasped his name. He kept it up until she was dripping wet, until all he could feel under his hands was slick wet and she was babbling helplessly.

 

Then, and only then, he plunged two fingers into her cunt and started to thrust firm and long. She shrieked something that might have been his name – and she came. He did not stop, he kept fucking her heat with his fingers, curled them inside her to find a spot that made her _howl._

                “Petyr! Oh – fuck, Petyr!” she was simultaneously pressing down onto his fingers and squirming in a manner that suggested she needed him to stop. He slowed his touches.

                “Can you come again?” he asked her, voice hoarse. “Come for me again?”

                “I – I don't, oh shit, Petyr, _please don't stop._ ” It was all he needed to hear. His palm was positioned in such a way that meant he could press against her clit as he fucked her open. She was so hot, and so tight around his fingers – he could only image what it might feel like if he had his cock in her. He kept going, kept fucking her, his free hand fisting in her red hair and pulling gently. The effect of it was instantaneous – she screamed out loud, he could feel her legs shaking – and he redoubled his efforts. He could feel her tightening again, fluttering weakly around his fingers as he kept touching the spot inside her and teasing as best as he could with a hand that was starting to cramp from the demands he placed on it. Well, it could go hang. He didn’t care if it fell off, as long as he made her come again.

                “You're so wet for me, sweetling,” he whispered, turning his head to whisper straight into her ear. “I can hear how wet you are, hear how greedily your cunt is taking me in, again and again as I fuck you. Beautiful, you're beautiful like this, falling apart in my arms. I want to throw you down and bury my cock in you, fuck you senseless and fucking _ruin_ you. I want to mark your skin with bruises, Sansa, I want to nip and bite at your neck until everyone knows that you are mine -" He forced himself to stop, worried he'd gone too far but she was tensing in his arms, her face flushed with pleasure and she was coming, he could feel it – weaker than before but an orgasm. He would have continued, but a shaking hand had wrapped around his wrist.

                “Petyr,” she gasped. “Stop. Sensitive.” He drew his hand away gently and she groaned – and he didn't miss how she tried to follow. He chuckled.

                “Greedy girl,” he murmured, kissing her hair.

                “Ignore it,” she muttered. “It doesn't know what's good for it.” He pulled her knickers back into place and felt how soft she was. He imagined how her cunt might look now, pink and glistening and perhaps slightly swollen. Next time, he was doing this in a way that meant he could look at her. She unhooked her legs from his with a slight groan, cuddling into him and kissing his throat.

                “Gods, Petyr. Just _– Gods._ ”

                “I – I should apologise. For – what I said.” He felt her shake her head.

                “Don't you dare. It was hot as hell, Petyr. I er – I haven't come twice in a row before. That was – amazing. And I liked hearing it.” She snuggled closer – and obviously felt his erection. She moved to face him, and his breath caught in his throat.

 

She looked _wild._ Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, her cheeks flushed and bottom lip swollen and cherry-red where her teeth had bitten it. Her hands were wandering down his shirt-front, snagging on the buttons occasionally.

                “Do you want me to take care of that, Petyr?” she enquired. She was _dangerously_ close now. He was about to say yes, say absolutely I do, but then something disturbed his thought. The grandfather clock in his hall chimed four times, and bonged twice. He glanced at his watch and swore violently.

                “Gods – _fuck_. I am going to be _very_ late for work.” This did not seem to bother her at all. Her hands were on his belt.

                “You're already late,” she murmured, kissing his neck. “What's a little later?”

                “Sansa,” he groaned. “I – I cannot _believe_ I am saying this, but I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”

                “Blow it,” she muttered. Oh, he could think of something she could _blow_. And that had been juvenile in the extreme, he thought, mentally kicking himself. For all he thought she had a point, he still found himself putting his hands over hers and moving them away from his belt buckle. She pouted at him – actually _pouted_ – and he was so, so tempted to just call in, cancel his entire afternoon and drag her to his bedroom for the next several hours. Possibly days.

                “Sansa, I hate myself for saying no – please don't look at me like that, you vixen – but I have _got_ to go.” She huffed, but stood up anyway. He took great pride in how he saw her knees shake for a brief moment.

 

Watching her put her clothes on was torturous, but he was getting later by the minute. For all his concern, however, they still stood by her car for several long minutes, their kisses bordering on the aggressive as she evidently did her level best to make him change his mind about needing to go back to work. It damn near worked too, when he found himself with his hand up her jumper and her own hands on his arse, pulling his hips towards her own. He managed to drag his mind out of the gutter long enough to remind her of their location.

                “You know that there are such things as public decency laws,” he groaned.

                “I'll stop if you stop,” she replied. “Besides, you're an excellent lawyer, I'm sure you'llbe able to get us off.” He laughed, but tore himself away from her.

                “I have _got_ to go, Sansa.”

                “I'm not stopping you,” she said. “You're the one who keeps kissing me.”

                “How can I not?” he demanded. She just smiled at him, and he pressed one more kiss to her swollen lips. “Go,” he said, taking a step back from her for good measure. “And I'll see you tomorrow.”

 

She went, and he broke the speed limit to get back into the office on time. He went straight into his meeting, during which the CPS brief kept glancing curiously at his neck, and managed to get through it without embarrassing himself – even with the buzz of an incoming text against his thigh. He knew it was her too, and was damn tempted to peek. The thought that it might be salacious in nature was both simultaneously a deterrent and an encouragement, and he managed to ignore it until he was back in his office. When he opened it, he did not regret having waited – the picture of her kiss-swollen lips and still-heavy eyes was enthralling. If ever a girl looked well-fucked, it was Sansa Stark.

 

His office door burst open, and he jumped so badly the phone slid from his hand to his desk with a clatter. Catelyn Stark was advancing on him, and inwardly, he quailed. Oh Gods, he was going to need to talk to her – with the memory of her daughter's wet cunt and screams of pleasure still fresh in his mind. She stopped at the edge of his desk and leant forward, smiling dangerously.

                “Petyr,” she said, and oh Gods, but that was _terrifying_ , “what is this I hear about you and _my daughter_?”

                “What do you hear?” he queried, trying to keep his voice steady.

                “Oh, I think you know. Are you, or are you not, currently involved with Sansa?” Faced with a direct question, he gathered his courage.

                “We are seeing each other, yes,” he said as calmly as he could. Catelyn glowered.

                “Well, that's just perfect,” she snapped. “Now I owe Ned a bottle of Benrinnes and ten pounds.” He blinked at her. Sansa had mentioned a bet that had been on, but shouldn't Catelyn be throwing something at him? Something heavy, like his hard drive or a book?

                “I – I don't understand,” he said bluntly.

                “Ned thought it was you,” she complained, dropping into his visitor's chair and crossing her arms. “I said no, he and I work together, I would have noticed if he was courting her – or indeed anyone – but evidently _not._ I suppose she was your “dinner meeting" yesterday? Where did you take her?”

                “Er–La Rosa,” he said, still baffled.

                “My Gods, really? Well.”

                “Look here, Catelyn, I er – I don't want to – that is to say, I don't mean to _question_ you – but shouldn't you be throwing something at me? Or ordering me to stay away from your precious daughter? Or shouldn't Ned be bursting in here with a shotgun and a demand for me to never darken your doorway again?” Catelyn hooted.         

                “Can you see Ned with a shotgun? Petyr, Sansa is eighteen. I cannot make her decisions for her and I'd like to see her face if I tried. That's not say I'm exactly _thrilled_ , of course. I would prefer it if you were – well, a _little_ bit younger. You are thirty years her senior -"

                “Twenty-nine years,” he corrected, then cringed.

                “Don't split hairs,” she reproved him. “Look, Petyr, if she absolutely had to take up with an older man – and evidently she did – at least it's you and not, I don't know, Jaime Lannister for example. I mean, we know you. We know you're a decent man, we know you aren't a complete arse -"

                “Thank you,” he interrupted drily.

                “And we know you wouldn't mess her around,” Catelyn continued as if he'd never spoken.        “However, I do want to inform you that if you _do_ mess her around, I will destroy you faster than you can turn around,” she finished, smiling sweetly. “Ned coming after you with a shotgun would be the least of your worries, believe me.” He nodded.

                “Understood. I assure you, Catelyn, I have no intentions whatsoever of messing her around.”

“Well, good.” She stood up and went to the door, then turned back with a slight smirk. “Oh, and you might want adjust your collar slightly.”

 

Adjust his collar? He ducked into the bathroom and peered at his reflection – and only then did he realise that Sansa had left a red mark on his neck, just peeking out from his collar.

 

Well, at least that explained why the CPS rep had been shooting him those funny looks. He adjusted his collar to hide the mark, and managed to somehow scramble through the rest of his day before he and Catelyn shut down for Christmas Eve and Day. Catelyn was pulling on her coat when he poked a cautious head into her office.

                “This – may be an obvious question, but er – am I still invited to Christmas Eve tomorrow?” Catelyn laughed.

                “Of course you are. I can't promise that Ned won't corner you and make various threats, but you're still very welcome.”

                “If it means I can keep seeing Sansa, he can threaten me every moment of the day.” He prepared to withdraw, but Catelyn suddenly had a hand on his arm.

                “Petyr, with all the joking and silly bets aside – do you honestly care for her? This – and this is _not_ meant as an insult –this isn't just to get some kind of ridiculous ego boost or the kick of dating a younger woman?”

                “It is not,” he said, very definitely. “Catelyn, I absolutely promise you that this really does mean something to me. Sansa is clever, sweet, funny, beautiful and very mature for her age. I genuinely care about her.”

                “Good. I just – had to be sure. She's still my girl, after all.”

                “I know that, Cat. I swear I'm not going to hurt her.” Catelyn fixed him with a stare that reminded him of an x-ray, then suddenly smiled.

                “I know. So, do you mind if I ask _how_ this came about?” He was stymied. He had no mind at all to tell Catelyn the truth. “Ah,” she said suddenly, grimacing. “Is this something I would probably rather not know?”

                “Probably,” he said with a slightly nervous laugh. “But I absolutely promise it's nothing bad – and I absolutely swear it is a recent thing and I did _not_ look at her as anything other than your daughter until a few weeks ago.”

                “I didn't for a moment imagine that you did,” Catelyn answered, smiling at him. “So, any time from 2pm, bring a bottle of wine or whatever and yourself. And I know how you dress for occasions, and I assure you it isn't necessary. Just wear jeans and a shirt.”

                “Message received.”

 

He drove home, threw his only pair of jeans into the washing machine and pulled out the pile of gifts he had purchased. It had expanded dramatically from the usual one he brought Varys – he had decided as soon as Catelyn invited him that he couldn't show up without something for the Starks, and had duly brought them all something. Only Sansa had nothing yet – although he had been faithfully promised that her gift would be ready for collection tomorrow. It meant braving the shops on Christmas Eve, but at least he had only to collect it, rather than rush round and actually choose something. He might as well get on with wrapping - Sansa's friend would probably be over by now, and he had no doubt that tremendous amounts of gossiping was being done.

 

Gods, he missed her already. What a pathetic idiot he was becoming. He shook his head with a slightly rueful laugh, and set himself to wrapping.

 


	17. Sansa IV

She and Margaery had passed their first couple of hours in the living room with the whole boiling of the family – minus Arya, who was claiming to be sleeping over at her friend Shireen's house – meaning _out with Gendry_ – and had got herself a pass for the night. Robb had dedicated twenty straight minutes to winding Margaery up, who had in turn tormented him about “that poor animal on your face, Robb" for fifteen minutes. Her parents had borne it for half an hour before herding “the kids" bedwards and telling her, Margaery, Robb and Jon to tidy up _before_ they went to bed and to put any bottles they might empty into the recycling. Sansa, who had expected the Spanish Inquisition, was very relieved by this hands-off approach and, naively, believed herself safe for the night.

 

At least until Margaery produced the bottle of Sambuca anyway.

                “What the _fuck_ is that?” she demanded, eyeing it. She knew good and well what it was.

                “We are going to play truth or dare,” Margaery announced. Robb and Jon jeered.

                “Baby,” Robb said scathingly. “You need to up your game, Tyrell.”

                “Well what do _you_ suggest?”

                “Ring of fire, obviously,” Robb said.

                “What?”

                “We need a pack of cards, a pint glass, and drinks.” Wine was poured, the boys cracked open beers, and Sansa found four shot glasses. “The rules are simple,” Robb explained, having sat them all around the coffee table and put the pint glass in the centre, arranging the cards face down around it. “We go around the circle, taking it in turns to pick a card. Each card has a different rule or instruction. Ace is waterfall – if you pick it, you start drinking and nobody can stop drinking until you do. Two is choose – you pick someone to drink. Three is me – you drink. Four is – ahem – whore, so girl's drink – _ow._ ” Margaery smiled beautifically at him as Robb rubbed his arm. “Look, _I_ didn't make the rules. Five is Thumb Master – you can put your thumb on the table _so_ and leave it there. The last to notice and copy you drinks – but you can wait to do it, you don't need to do it right away. Six is dicks, so guys drink. Seven is heaven – point straight up and whoever reacts slowest drinks. Eight is mates, pick someone to drink with you. Nine is rhyme – you say a word and we go round the circle rhyming until someone cocks up and has to drink. Ten is categories – say something like football, we go around the circle saying associated words until someone cocks up, they drink. Jacks is choose – you can choose the rule, but I reckon we can make it the truth or dare card. So whoever draws it can ask every other player to do truth or dare. Queens is questions – go around the circle asking questions, and it must be answered with a question. Whoever answers without a question drinks. And King – if you draw a king, everyone adds a splash of their drink to the pint glass. Whoever draws the last king drinks the dirty pint.”

                “Am I seriously meant to remember all that?” Margaery demanded.

                “No,” Robb answered. “Me and Jon can help you. Up for it?”

                “Hell yes,” Margaery said, sitting up straighter and tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Sansa?”

                “Why not? Let's do it.”

 

Robb drew first, drew a six, and he and Jon took a drink, passing the draw to Jon – who drew a Jack. Eyes gleaming in a way Sansa did _not_ like, he sat up ramrod straight. He started with Robb.

                “Truth or dare?”

                “Truth,” Robb said, obviously without thinking.

                “What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve done with Jeyne?”

                “Bastard,” Robb growled. “Fine. If you really must know, Jeyne – sometimes calls me Daddy.” Margaery and Jon howled at him and Sansa permitted herself a giggle.

                “Appalling,” Jon declared. “Tyrell - pick your poison.”

                “I'll go truth too. Do your worst Jon – I have zero shame.”

                “Weirdest kiss?”

                “Oh, good one. I'm going to have to say – Sansa.”

                “How rude!” Sansa protested. “It's in my top five, that kiss!”

                “Well mine too – alright, top ten, but it was still weird.”

                “Fair play. Go on then Jon,” Sansa said, sitting back against the sofa. “I pick truth.”

                “Urgh, see here's the problem with this,” Jon complained. “I'm nowhere near drunk enough to want to hear about your sexual exploits, so I'm playing it safe. Who was your first kiss – and how old were you?”

                “Harry Hardyng and I was twelve,” she said promptly, frankly relieved to get off so lightly.

                “Twelve?” Robb demanded. “What were you doing kissing boys at twelve?”

                “ _A_ boy, and we were going out, thank you,” she said primly. “Now, is it my draw?” She picked out a three, took a decent slug of wine.

 

They completed another round before Margaery drew a Jack – and Sansa cursed inwardly. Jon might have had qualms, but Margaery would not. She too started with Robb, and he chose dare.

                “Three shots,” Margaery ordered, lining them up in front of him. He bitched loudly, but took them, and Jon chose truth.

                “Ah, Jon. What's the weirdest place you ever had sex?”

                “In the university library, in the journal stacks,” he answered immediately.

                “ _Dude_ ,” Robb said, sounding deeply impressed.

                “You're disgusting,” Sansa said, sipping her wine.

                “Shut up,” Jon said, blushing to the roots of his hair.

                “Sansa?” Margaery's voice said, dangerously. “Truth or dare, Sansa, come on.” She groaned aloud. If she _did_ pick dare, Margaery was quite capable of daring her to answer any question truthfully. If she picked truth, then all sorts of embarrassment could be due to her.

                “Dare,” she answered, praying Margaery would go easy.

                “Describe to us your ultimate sexual fantasy.”

                “Urgh, Margaery. _Fine_. Jon, Robb, cover your ears if you don't want to hear it. I – would very much enjoy being tied up and fucked, OK?” Margaery shrieked with glee while Robb gagged.

                “For fuck's sake, Sansa, I did _not_ need to know that.”

                “I told you to cover your ears, idiot. Jon did, and his innocence – or what remains of it – remains untainted.”

                “Let's just get on with the game,” Jon said hurriedly, nudging Robb. Robb drew the first King, and they all sloshed a measure into the dirty pint.

 

Robb was next to draw a Jack, and inhibitions were obviously loosening a bit. Jon chose dare and bowed to peer pressure to play the game in his boxers. Margaery picked out truth again.

                “Play Shag, Marry, Kiss with the three of us.”

                “Oh, that’s a teaser,” Margaery said. “Shag Jon. I reckon there's a kinky streak a mile wide under that quiet exterior, and it'd probably be damn good fun. Kiss you. Marry Sansa, because then I could shag her all the time,” she finished, winking. Sansa blew her a kiss and turned to Robb.

                “Truth,” she said, confident that he wouldn't be too harsh. She was very wrong. He'd obviously had just enough to drink to be curious.

                “Petyr Baelish,” he drawled, looking at her with a smirk. “I want to know _why._ ”

                “Because he's hot,” Sansa replied, making eye contact. “And he's funny, clever, brilliant lawyer – he's successful, driven, determined, passionate. He's _amazingly_ sweet, kind, generous, he's gorgeous – got that silver fox thing going on – and he's well-dressed, articulate, highly intelligent, he makes excellent conversation, he challenges me, he's -"

                “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Robb protested, holding up both hands and laughing. “I was after like funny or clever, not a bloody celebration of the man's best traits, Gods.”

                “Well you asked!” she protested, blushing scarlet. Margaery was eyeing her over her wine glass in a _very_ amused way, which quite frankly meant that there was trouble on the horizon.

 

She and Margaery both drew Kings on their turns on the next round, filling the glass to the top. She had hoped for the last Jack, taking the spotlight very much _off_ her – but the Gods were cruel, and the final Jack fell to Jon.

                “Truth,” she told him, staring right at him when he asked. Jon sat back, resting his weight on his palms as he eyed her.

                “Are you in love with Petyr Baelish?” Her breath caught in her throat. Without breaking eye contact, she pulled a shot glass in front of her.

                “Fill it,” she said calmly. Margaery did, and she looked from Jon to the brimming measure of Sambuca. In fairness to him, it was not the absolute worst question he could have asked. He could have asked her a hundred more humiliating questions.

 

She drank the shot, pulled the last Ace for waterfall, and then with several cards still on the table, Margaery drew the King – and the privilege of drinking the dirty pint to herself. She didn't envy her – that glass held Carling, rosé wine from her glass and red from Margaery’s. Judging by the grimacing and complaining, it was a revolting as it sounded, and she cried off when Margaery tried to rouse them into playing another game. Robb and Jon might have plenty of time to recover from hideous hangovers tomorrow, but she and Margaery had to be up. It didn't stop Margaery and the boys setting up another round, while Sansa agreed to act as ring master in case of any disputes. Not before she whisked away the glasses though, and at least started on some washing up.

 

She was just finishing up a tumbler when there was a step behind her and she jumped as a hand fell on her shoulder. She glanced back to see Ned and Catelyn both smiling at her.

                “You scared me,” she protested. “Are we being too loud?”

                “No,” Ned answered. “We just wanted to talk to you and your mother happened to walk past the head of the stairs and see you cross to the kitchen alone. Now, um, Sansa -" He trailed off a little helplessly, glancing at her mother for help.

                “You want to talk about Petyr,” she said, rinsing off a plate. “Might as well just get it over,” she muttered, more to herself than them. When she finally rinsed the last glass and actually fully turned to face them, she found her mother smiling softly at her.

                “We have no intentions for this to be a lecture, Sansa,” her mother said gently. “Ultimately, you are legally an adult now and we can't very well tell you _not_ to see him.”

                “He's old,” Ned muttered, obviously uncomfortable.

                “He's younger than you,” Sansa shot back.

                “He's forty seven! It's what, a three year difference?”

                “Two years and ten months” Catelyn murmured delicately. “And Ned, darling –“

                “Look, I am not – _thrilled_ about this, OK? I mean, I know we had that stupid bet but I never actually thought – I mean, I was just joking around with your mother.”

                “Dad,” Sansa said, looking right at him, “remember how dating boys my own age went?” Her father grimaced. “I just – I really like Petyr,” she admitted. “ _Really_ like him, I mean. And I absolutely swear that I am a fully consenting part of this, in fact I _started_ it. And I know he's older than me, and I know that might make you uncomfortable – but I'm _happy_.” Ned looked at her in silence for a moment, then pulled her into a very, _very_ tight hug. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged back.

                “I won't stand in your way,” he said gruffly, stepping back. “Just – if you need me to beat him senseless, just tell me.” He stumped out then, and Sansa exchanged a glance with her mother, who smiled ruefully.

                “He'll come round,” she said. “I – I spoke to Petyr today. He assured me he had no intentions towards you other than making you happy and I believe him. So – you are happy, aren't you?” Sansa blushed but nodded.

                “So happy, Mum.”

                “Good. So er - you're - you're being – _safe_ aren't you darling? Do you need me to get you -"

                “ _Mum!_ I'm on the pill and – and anyway we haven't – you know.” Her mother was blushing too.

                “Oh! Oh, well. Good. Then – good. I think I'm going to go back upstairs now.”

                “Good idea,” Sansa muttered.

                “Cheek. Have a good night with the boys and Margaery.” Her mother basically fled the room, and Sansa drained a full glass of wine before she went back into the living room, almost blinded by sheer embarrassment. They all looked up as she dropped onto the sofa – and she saw Jon kick Robb in the knee to make him button it.

 

It was only once they called it a night and she and Margaery were both tucked up in her bed together that she turned to her best friend.

                “I think I do love him,” she murmured, apropos of nothing. Margaery rolled onto her side and smiled at her.

                “I kind of figured where it was headed. You don't see the look on your face when you're texting him or whatever. I don't think I ever saw anyone so stupidly happy.”

                “Shut up,” Sansa muttered, picking at a loose thread.

                “Sansa, you deserve to be happy. You're like the nicest person I ever met, it's sickening. However this ends – if it ends - you'll have had a really great time at least.”

                “The _best_ time. Margaery – I went over to his house at lunchtime.” Even in the shadowy dark of her bedroom, Margaery's face visibly lit up.

                “Tell me, tell me!”

                “We didn't have _full_ sex. In fact I didn't even see his equipment. But Margaery – ugh, I came _twice._ Just from his hand and his voice.”

                “But he didn't – I mean did you return the favour?”

                “I tried, trust me, and I mean he was _ready_ , but he was late for work and wouldn't let me.”

                “Wow. That is – _wow._ ”

                “I know.”

                “Ugh,” Margaery said, rolling onto her back dramatically. “You're so lucky. Where do I find a handsome, eligible older man who is not only _staggeringly_ wealthy but completely unselfish?”

                “Wealthy?” Sansa asked. Margaery snorted.

                “You – you do know he's, like, the richest bachelor in the country? He’s topped the wealthiest men in Westeros for the last five years.”

 _“What_?”

                “You seriously – you didn't know?”

                “ _No._ ”

                “Well, he is. Like seriously, he's unbelievably rich, Sans. Did La Rosa as a first date not tip you off?”

                “I just thought he was – I don't know! Oh Gods, you don't think – he doesn't think I'm in it for the money, does he?”

                “Seeing as you didn't even know, I doubt it. Don't worry, Sansa,” Margaery said, patting her hand. “And if you were worried, why don't you text him? Ask why he never mentioned it?”

                “No way,” she said. “I just – I think I should leave it unless he brings it up.”

                “Fair enough. Gods, I'm so tired. Shall we?”

                “Yeah,” Sansa said, rolling onto her front and snuggling down. “Probably best.”

 

She woke early, saw the light of Margaery's phone.

                “Who are you texting?” she asked sleepily. “What time is it?”

                “Just Loras,” Margaery replied. “And it's like three am. Go back to sleep.” She was already there, and felt Margaery snuggle up beside her. Sleep pulled her under mere seconds later.


	18. Petyr IV

_Unknown Number: Mr Baelish, I got your number from Sansa's phone. Hope you don't mind. I may have accidently let slip that you're the wealthiest bachelor in the country and now she's stressing that you might think she's in it for the money. She is not – Sansa isn't like that. Besides, I think she loves you so much she wouldn't care if you were as poor as a Sept-mouse. Hope this doesn't wake you. Margaery Tyrell._

He'd seen the message as soon as he woke at his usual hour of seven-thirty. It had side-swiped him for a moment, he had to admit.

 

Not the thing about the top of the rich list revelation - he'd always assumed she either knew, guessed or simply didn't care. No, he knew she wasn't after his money. La Rosa had proven that. That wasn't what was entrancing him. _I think she loves you so much_.

 

He had spent all his life dismissing people who declared _love_ within a few weeks of meeting as sentimental idiots – who, in his opinion, were simply suckers for the pain and drama of a break-up played out in public. But Sansa – oh Gods help him. He'd actually done it. The entire day, as he fought his way around the shopping centre to pick up her gift and one or two other things he spied, as he ironed his jeans and picked out a shirt, as he decided to skip the jeans and just stick to what he termed his _casual suit_ , packed and repacked two gift bags, picked out wine and generally fretted, he could not stop returning to the Tyrell girl's text. _She loves you_ – because that was what it amounted to, really.

 

At five to two exactly, he was sitting in the taxi – which had arrived late, so now he would be late – and indulging in a habit he had given up years ago: biting the skin around his thumbnail. He was actually nervous, for Gods' sake. He, Petyr Baelish, who had prosecuted serial killers and thugs and mobsters – and he was _nervous_ about going to a woman's house.

 

Despite it still being daylight, the evergreen trees that lined the Stark driveway were wrapped in twinkling white lights, a wreath hanging on the open gates, and one on the door too. In one hand he clutched the two bottles of wine he’d brought, in the other the gift bags and as he made his way up to the front door, he was seriously contemplating running for the hills. When he rang the bell and waited, he could hear music and laughter from inside, then running feet as someone came to answer the door. It was Arya, and she grinned up at him.

                “Oh, it's _you._ Shall I yell for mum or Sansa?”

                “Your mother first, I should think. May I come in?”

                “Whatever,” she told him, stepping back so he could step inside out of the bitter wind. He fancied he could smell snow in the air. “Mum," Arya bellowed. Catelyn emerged from the living room and smiled at him even as Arya disappeared.

                “Petyr! I was starting to think you had changed your mind. Give me your coat.”

                “The taxi was delayed,” he explained, shrugging off his coat and handing it to her. “I'm so sorry.”

                “Oh, I wasn't telling you off,” she said, hanging his coat under the stairs. “What's all this?” she asked, gesturing.

                “Oh – I couldn't decide on wine, so I just brought both. And er – I brought the family gifts.”

                “Petyr! You didn't have to do that!”

                “I know,” he said, starting to feel ruffled. “But I wanted to.”

                “Well, thank you. It's appreciated. Shall I take them or do you want to give them out?”

                “Oh no, you take them,” he said. “You can put them under the tree.”

                “Alright, but I'll just pop them in the cupboard for now.” She did so, then tucked her hand through his arm. “Come along then,” she said. “Let's get you a drink and somewhere to perch.”

 

He attracted very little attention when they walked in, for which mercy he was devoutly thankful. Sansa was nowhere to be seen, but Catelyn was leading him to a well-loaded drinks table and asking what he wanted. He put his bottles down and chose Scotch – because it might well only be 2pm but he could already sense the social interactions that would be expected, and hard alcohol was _necessary_ –and Catelyn found him a chair. She then gave him a very, very mischievous smile – and he was forcefully reminded of her daughter.

                “Shall I tell Sansa you're here? I think she and Margaery are just finishing in the kitchen. They ran behind today.”

                “No, no,” he hurried to assure you. “I'll be fine here. I doubt she'd thank you if she was disturbed.” Catelyn grinned.

                “I am _very_ glad to hear you say that. Very well then. I must revolve I’m afraid. Help yourself to drinks, and if you need a bathroom it's just off the hall – we put a sign on the door.”

 

He sat there for perhaps half an hour before his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out with difficulty.

 

_Sansa: Which ones?_

 

He frowned in confusion – but then the pictures came through. She was posing in lingerie in front of a mirror- one set green, one set black. He glanced around to find that he was still largely unnoticed.

 

_Petyr: Sansa, I am in a room with your entire family. Are you trying to kill me?_

_Sansa: Then go to the bathroom. I need an opinion._

He got himself to the bathroom, and took his time examining both pictures. The green looked to be silk – it framed and accented, was tasteful and sexy. But the black – Gods, the black. It was just lace, just see through lace and nothing else, left pretty much _nothing_ to the imagination. And she expected him to be able to sit through however long this lasted while knowing what lingerie she was wearing?

 

_Petyr: The black._

_Petyr: Just to inform you, this is very, very cruel of you._

_Sansa: You love it, darling. Don't pretend it won't turn you on to know that my knickers are just the thinnest of lace, the smallest possible barrier between you and me._

_Petyr: That's why it's cruel._

_Petyr: Wear a skirt._

He returned to the party, and found that this time he was not to be left alone. He recognised two of the three young men who advanced on him – Jon Snow and Robb Stark had enough family resemblance to show the cousinship they shared, but the third man was a stranger. He hadn't even got back to his seat.

                “Gentlemen,” he said, nodding. The third man swept him a head to toe look.

                “Is this him?” he demanded of Robb, and when he got a nod, smirked. “I expected – more imposing somehow."

                “I don't think I've had the pleasure,” Petyr said, extending his free hand. “Petyr Baelish.”

                “Theon Greyjoy,” came the answer. The hand in his was rough. “So you're the one fucking my girl Sans?” _Sans_? My girl?

                “I assure you, she is a more than willing participant,” Petyr said coolly. Robb and Jon were exchanging glances.

                “Oh no, I know that. Where is she anyway?” Theon Greyjoy demanded of Robb and Jon. “Haven't seen Sansa in a year. I demand a hug from her.” Petyr's blood started to boil. Before he could inform this cocky little shit that if he put his hands anywhere _near_ Sansa, he'd fucking bury him, Arya was yelling.

                “Food!”

 

And there, smiling like an angel, was Sansa Stark, proudly bearing two foil trays and wearing one of the shortest skirts Petyr had ever beheld. Margaery Tyrell was pushing one of those weird catering trolleys covered in several other trays, and Catelyn was hurrying forward to help set them out over a table covered with a snowman-printed cloth. As soon as Sansa had been relieved of her trays, he saw her looking round. She was advancing on the group and shot him a wink – even as Theon Greyjoy was swooping.

                “Sans! You gorgeous thing.” And his hands were on her and Petyr was seeing red – but Sansa was just kissing his cheek and easing back with a smile.

                “Theon! I didn't know you were coming tonight. Where's Ramsey?”

                “He said he'd rather flay himself alive than socialise all night. He's spending some time with his Dad and Walda, he'll pop by later.” She nodded, then glanced at Petyr. A knowing little smile spread over her face.

                “You’ve been teasing Petyr, haven't you? Theon Greyjoy, you are a bad man. Petyr, Theon is in a long term relationship. He just likes to torment people.”

                “Hey man, I had to check he was willing to defend your honour,” Theon said. Robb and Jon were grinning at him too. “Not everyone is good enough for you, baby.” Sansa rolled her eyes and stepped up to Petyr's side. She wasted absolutely no time in winding her fingers with his and smiling at him.

                “I'm sorry I left you with these idiots,” she said. “We had a bit of an issue with the cheese straws.”

                “You're here now,” he said, squeezing her hand lightly. She beamed at him – and three gagging sounds reached their ears. Sansa glared round.

                “Piss off,” she snapped. They grinned at them and then wandered off. Sansa glanced at his empty Scotch glass. “Do you want another drink? Because I need one.” She poured herself a glass of lemonade, and he accepted the same. “We'd better do a lap,” she said, gesturing. “Get it over with.”

 

He followed her like an obedient puppy. She went to her parents first, who were standing with Robert Baratheon.

                “Dad?” Ned turned, fixed Petyr with a long, hard stare – lingering on the hand entwined with Sansa's.

                “Baelish,” Ned said, stiffly, before turning to his daughter with a smile. “Food looks great, honey.”

                “Thanks Dad. Hello, Mr Baratheon.”

                “Sansa, you look absolutely beautiful,” Robert boomed. “And hello again, Petyr.”

                “Robert.”

                “We're going to kind of revolve a bit, Mum,” Sansa said, smiling brightly. “We'll probably work back round soon.”

                “OK darling. Break Petyr in gently, though.” Petyr shot her a grateful smile and she winked at him.

 

But Sansa was leading him away already and to his great surprise, they weren't revolving at all. They stopped at the food table, Sansa put one or two items on a plate, stopped to briefly acknowledge one or two greetings, introducing him to them – then tugged his hand firmly and pulled him out of the room. She was heading for the door opposite the bathroom, and he found himself in a utility room containing washing machine, drier and hoover. Sansa had put plate and glass down on a shelf and was turning to him with a very wicked smile. He wasted no time in setting down his own glass and dragging her in.

                “Naughty, cruel, teasing little _vixen_ ,” he hissed winding his arms around her waist and pressing her into him. Her eyes went wide and she smiled at him, batting her eyelashes up at him.

                “Don't you like my skirt?” she enquired, all innocence. “You did request it.”

                “That is not a skirt. Are you wearing the lace, Sansa?”

                “Why don't you check?” she teased.

                “Check?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her. “Here? With your parents in the next room, with your family _right_ outside?”

                “I can be quiet,” she murmured, her breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. “My question, Petyr, is if _you_ can.” Before he could question her, she had spun them round, backed him into the washing machine – and had dropped to her knees in front of him. “I do believe I owe you a favour, Petyr,” she said, her voice disturbingly light as she trailed her fingertips up his thighs. “May I?” Her hands were tracing the square of his belt.

                “You may,” he choked, staring down at her as she undid his belt buckle at a torturously slow speed.

 

He had died and gone to heaven – and heaven was Sansa Stark putting her hands on his cock.


	19. Sansa X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have updated to reflect the sickeningly fluffy turn this took.

Petyr Baelish's cock had been carved by fucking _angels._

 

Gods. It was not huge, but then again, it didn't bloody need to be. It curved slightly too, favouring the right and she wrapped a reverential hand around it. Hard steel and molten silk. She stroked him very gently for some time, just teasing, just experiencing the feel in her hands and the warmth of him. She hadn't bothered completely removing his trousers – the one tiny part of her mind thought they had better do this is a way that meant he could cover up quickly if necessary.

 

The fact that sucking him off while he was wearing a suit was in her top five fantasy moments had absolutely nothing to do with it.

 

She teased him for a long time, using her hands to caress every inch of him, finding each spot that made his breathing quicken and made his buck slightly against her hands. She got him panting before she leant forward and placed a kiss on the sensitive head before her, her tongue darting out to taste him. Salty, slightly bitter. She nuzzled him gently, before she acted, placing a kiss directly onto his balls and laving them gently with her tongue, quietly relieved to find some evidence of what Margaery had once referred to as manscaping.

                “Fuck, Sansa -" She stopped kissing him at once, but her heart was doing triumphant backflips. So he did have a weak spot.

                “Shh,” she warned. “If you can't keep quiet, I'll have to stop.”

                “Don't you dare,” he growled. She just smiled at him, before she opened her mouth and leant forward to take him inside.

 

She'd underestimated his girth. She'd barely been going two minutes before her jaw started to protest. But the taste of him, the scent of him – she wasn't stopping unless her jaw actually locked up. She licked at him with each draw-back, swirling her tongue to collect the pre-come she could taste on him, using her hand to gently massage his balls. He was hissing and gasping, his hands had wound into her hair. He wasn't attempting to fuck her face though – although frankly, she would not have complained if he did. She withdrew then, craned her neck to an uncomfortable angle as she relaxed her jaw a little, making eye contact. She urged him forward with her hands on his hips, felt him touch the back of her throat. As the urge to gag rose, she breathed in deep through her nose, remembered what Margaery had once said about how tucking her thumb into a fist would stop her gagging.

 

Astonishingly, it worked – and he did not simply _nudge_ the back of her throat. He surged forward with a cry that sounded oddly muffled. She could feel tears forming in her eyes, thanked all the Gods that she was wearing waterproof mascara as she experimentally tried to swallow. She brought her free hand to his balls – right against her _chin -_ and squeezed lightly, just once. His hands jerked in her hair, she pulled back a little, and felt the warmth of his come flood her mouth. In her shock at the suddenness of it, she felt some dribble down her chin. _I wonder what it would be like if he came on my face._

 

She swallowed what he had given her, although she grimaced a little at the thick texture, then licked him clean with slow, teasing stripes as he shuddered through the aftershocks, then sat back on her heels. He was looking down at her with heavy, lust-filled eyes, and she wiped her chin with one finger – and kept eye contact as she licked that finger clean. His hands were on her, dragging her to her feet, slamming her against the door before she could really process it.

 

His kiss was hot, demanding, and he left her in absolutely no doubt that he was the one controlling it. She fought him for control, but that stopped when he pulled lightly on her hair. The slight prickle of pain sent a shoot of heat to her belly, and she gasped against his mouth – and surrendered. And boy, was she glad she did.

 

He'd never kissed her like this, he was fucking _invading_ her, his hands fisted in her hair, dragging her closer every second. He pushed his thigh between her legs, she could feel the heat of his skin through his trousers as she squirmed against it, desperate for pressure, for friction, for _anything_ that might relieve the empty pressure. She felt consumed by him, her entire body was screaming for him, desperate to feel him press inside her, to invade, to _claim_ , to possess every inch of her and consume her until she knew nothing but him. More than anything, she desperately wanted him to _talk_ to her again, just as he had when he'd had his fingers in her cunt and a hand on her breast, whispering darkly into her ear.

 

By the time he drew away from her, she was rubbing herself frantically on his thigh, so damn close she was nearly sobbing with frustration.

                “What do you need?” he whispered roughly in her ear, using his grip on her hair to pull her head to the side and start nibbling.

                “Your – your voice,” she panted.

                “Naughty girl,” he murmured, still nibbling. “Will you come like this, sweetling? Rubbing yourself against my leg and listening to me tell you how _depraved_ you are, sucking my cock where anyone could have seen you on your knees?” She groaned out loud – and his hand came to cover her mouth. She thought her eyes might have rolled back into her skull. “Hush, sweetling. Don't want anyone to _hear._ You're a very naughty girl, aren't you? Fuck, I wish you could see yourself right now. You look so beautiful like this. Did you know your lips are a little swollen from sucking my cock? Taking it all the way down that pretty throat like a _whore_ -"

 

She came so hard and so violently she had to bite his palm to keep herself from screaming her head off. He didn't seem to mind. He just held her close once she'd gone limp, his hands petting her hair as she came down of her high and panted helplessly. She managed to pull enough coherent thought together to look at him and speak, but it had been a bloody challenge.

                “We need – you need – do that again.” He chuckled, kissing her gently.

                “You were amazing, sweetling,” he murmured, stroking her hair.

                “My pleasure,” she gasped.

 

It took some time, but her legs steadied enough to support her. She drained her lemonade, hoping it would soothe her slightly sore throat, then picked up the plate she'd put food on. She picked up the brownie, held it to his lips.

                “Taste it,” she commanded. He obeyed, taking a small bite. She saw the pleasure on his face.

                “Mint cocoa.” She nodded.

                “I found a recipe online.”

                “It's perfect,” he growled, and she had the idea that he wasn't talking about the brownie.

                “We should get back to the party,” she said, and his eyes darkened.

                “Stay by me,” he growled. “I want you in my grasp.”

                “Your grasp, Petyr? How deliciously possessive of you.” He cut off her sass with a deep, almost bruising kiss.

                “You are mine,” he growled. “My Sansa, my perfect girl.”

                “Only if you're mine,” she shot back. “I am no-one's _possession._ ”

                “Yours,” he promised. “Always yours.” She felt triumphant – and strangely warm inside. Hers. He was _hers._

                “Then it's only fair I suppose,” she said, feigning a put-upon sigh. He raised a quizzical brow at her. “That I'm yours,” she elaborated.

 

His kiss then tasted of desperate disbelief, and she smiled against his lips. When they broke apart again, she could see the vulnerability on him. It was endearing.

                “And – and you don't mind? That I'm – a _lot_ older than you? Because – fuck, Sansa. You could have anyone.”

                “I don't want anyone. I want you,” she said. “I like that you're older, more mature, more – _sensible._ And I like that you're more experienced. And I couldn't care less how old you are. You're what I want.” He framed her face in his hands, surprisingly gentle.

                “I don't deserve you,” he murmured.

                “Absolutely not,” she agreed, teasing now. “But you're stuck with me anyway.”

 

He stuck to her, certainly. They managed to get back into the party largely unnoticed, although Margaery was practically waggling her eyebrows at her whenever their eyes met. She managed to explain the absence to her mother by shamelessly using him as an excuse - he'd needed a break, so she'd offered him a tour of the house.

 

At five, long after dark and after the curtains had been pulled closed, Arya and Gendry created quite the sensation when they burst into the room like regular young snowmen. Catelyn had thrown up her hands in horror, even as Arya was yelling excitedly.

                “It's snowing!” There was a concerted rush for the windows, and Sansa and Margaery dragged back the heavy curtains. Outside, a young blizzard was starting to develop. Margaery's phone rang loudly, Beyoncé's Single Ladies blaring through the sudden quiet. Loras had arrived – the weather was settling in to stay, and Mrs Tyrell demanded her daughter home. It acted as a cue. Arya was permitted to walk to the end of the street with Gendry so his father could meet him there, Jojen and Meera Reed's father arrived minutes later to retrieve his children from Bran and Rickon's clutches, Robert Baratheon seemed to just vanish. And Petyr was standing at the door, bidding her goodbye.

                “I wish you didn't have to go,” she pouted. He laughed, rubbed a thumb over her lips.

                “You look lovely when you pout.”

                “Can I come over on Boxing Day?” she asked, excitement at her plans fizzing in her veins. He was going to love it.

                “Only if the storm is over,” he warned. “And if your family is OK with it.”

                “I already asked,” she said, smiling at him. “Oh! I nearly forgot! Wait here, please, just a moment.”

 

She dashed upstairs and into her bedroom. The neatly wrapped gift for him was on her nightstand, and she snatched it up.

                “I got you this,” she said, rather breathlessly when she got back downstairs. “I – I wanted you to have something.” He stared from her to the box.

                “You – you did not need to,” he said. Was it her imagination, or was he sounding rather husky?

                “I wanted to. It's nothing big, but I hope you like it.” He touched her face lightly.

                “Thank you,” he said, sincerity in every note. “I – I gave your gift to your mother, to put under the tree.” She beamed. Despite the cold pouring in through the open door, warmth flushed her.

                “Thank you, Petyr,” she whispered. She leant in the press a kiss to his smile. A piercing wolf-whistle rang out, and Arya bounded in out of the snow.

                “Put her down, Baelish, you don't know where she's been.” Arya had slipped past before Sansa could get hold of her, turning once she was at a safe distance to add more. “And there's a taxi at the gates.”

                “I should go,” Petyr said, with a slightly rueful smile. He kissed her this time. “Merry Christmas, Sansa Stark.”

                “Merry Christmas,” she breathed back.

 

One last kiss and he was gone. She watched him into the taxi before she shut the door, shivering slightly.

 

She helped her parents clear up, piling what little food was left onto two trays and covering them in cling film, taking out glasses and stacking the dishwasher. She changed into her warm pyjamas, wrapped herself up in her dressing gown, and joined what Bran called the family heap on the sofa. Robb even let her snuggle up. Even Arya had joined them – although, looking at the strange flush on her sister's cheeks, Sansa had suspicions about her motives.

 

They watched Die Hard together, as was Stark family tradition, and then Sansa prised herself out of the heap, yawning cavernously.

                “I think I might go to bed,” she said, looking round. “Nobody minds, do they?”

                “Not at all, darling,” Catelyn answered with a yawn of her own. Sansa smiled to herself as her father dropped a kiss onto his wife's hair and pulled her a little closer. Thirty years of marriage – and still absolutely adorable. “It's early though, are you alright?”

                “Just tired. And I need plenty of sleep before the three lunatics descend in the morning.” Her siblings protested at that, but Sansa successfully fended off all comers and escaped to the door, where she blew the heap a kiss. “Goodnight.”

 

She slipped upstairs, jumped into bed and snuggled down. She was alone for approximately three minutes before he door snicked open a crack.

                “Sans? Can I come in?” She raised an unseen eyebrow. Arya _never_ asked. She just threw doors open and yelled.

                “Sure,” she answered. Arya came in – and crept under the covers with her, burying herself most effectively. Curious now, Sansa tried to unearth her and frowned at the lump when Arya refused to relinquish her covers. “What's up, Arry?” she asked, using her sister's old nickname.

                “Nothing,” came the muffled response.

                “Well, it's not _nothing_ , is it? Come on, what's wrong?” A sudden flush came over her. Her sister had only ever done this once before – and it had been at like three in the morning, because her period had started and she'd been too upset to go to their parents. Sansa put her hand over what she thought might be her sister's head. “Arya? Is this – is this about Gendry? Um – about _sex_ , maybe?” It took a couple of minutes, but then Arya was emerging, her face scarlet.

                “We – we did some stuff.” Sansa nearly giggled at the look on her face. Poor Arya.

                “Did he hurt you?” she asked quickly. Best get that out the way first.

                “No!” The denial was so vehement, Sansa could practically taste the honesty. “He – he –“

                “Did he touch you?” Sansa asked, practically. Face now nearly purple, Arya nodded. “With his hands? Or – his mouth?”

                “Both,” Arya choked.

                “You didn't enjoy it?”

                “Shit, I loved it,” was the answer, and Sansa did giggle then.

                “Then what's up?”

                “Like – he did it – to me. Then I offered to do it back, you know? And then – fuck, Sans, it was _so bloody big._ ” Sansa was beginning to think she knew what the problem was.

                “How big?” Arya wriggled her hands out and touched the fingertips of one to the heel of the other. Sansa's eyes nearly popped. “Are you sure about that?”

                “I measured,” Arya choked. Sansa damn near died on the spot. She'd probably have run screaming if she had been confronted by that. However, she had no time to think, because apparently the dam had broken, and Arya was now telling her everything. “I touched it, you know? Gave him a handjob. He seemed to – enjoy it. But shit, Sans, what if we – if we have sex, how's it gonna _fit_? What if he like tears up my stuff and breaks it?”

                “First of all,” Sansa said, feeling nearly as red as Arya had looked, “you don't have to do _anything_ that you don't want to do. If you do – you know, shag him, would it be your – your first?” Arya nodded. “Then if he really is all that big, you'll need to – take it _very_ slowly. Lots of foreplay for you. Seriously. Make him work for it. And relax. You might need some – er, well – lubricant. But as long as you're relaxed enough, and you know – all ready – he will not ‘tear up your stuff'. I promise.”

                “Seriously?”

                “Seriously. And he _needs_ to wear a condom. And don't let him give you that ‘I'm too big' shit. Some guys try it. Someone tried it on Margaery once,” she remembered, giggling. Curiosity was replacing the embarrassment in Arya's face.

                “What did she do?”

                “Got the condom, and rolled it over her arm all the way to the elbow,” Sansa said, laughing openly now. “Then got dressed and walked out. Do you er– shall I get you some? Just in case? And I can take you to the doctor's too. Get you on the Pill, if you like?” Arya nodded, relief plain.

                “Thanks Sans. Really, I mean.”

                “No worries. Although you do know you can talk to mum about this stuff too?” Arya pulled a face.

                “She'll say I'm too young, and go all science-y on me. You're better at this stuff.”

                “Thanks. You OK?”

                “Mmm. It just – freaked me out, you know? Anatomy class never said it could look like _that._ ”

                “Never does. And – and you are _sure_ you liked it all, and wanted it?” Arya nodded vigorously.

                “We normally just – kiss, you know. And touch over clothes. So we sneaked out to the old stables. He asked if he could – see me, and I said yes, then he asked if -"

                “OK!” Sansa said hurriedly, slapping a pillow over her sister's face. “I don't need the details.” Arya fought her off.

                “Pretty uptight for a girl who disappeared with Petyr Baelish for a whole forty-five minutes. What were you doing, chatting about the weather? Talking lawyer?” Sansa mock-glared and pointed at the door.

                “Out,” she said firmly.

                “Fine, fine. But really Sans, thank you.”

                “Any time.”

 

Arya disappeared, and Sansa collapsed onto her pillows with a relieved sigh. All told, this was shaping up to be one of the weirdest Christmases she'd ever had.

 

Bring on Boxing Day, she thought. Shagging Petyr Baelish in sexy lingerie she'd brought specially would seem quite normal now – and _that_ was a sentence she never thought she'd think.


	20. Petyr X

He'd damn near collapsed when she'd backed him into the washing machine and practically _ordered_ him to keep quiet while she dropped to her knees in front of him and proceeded to outright torture him.

 

He barely made it safely home before he was hard again from remembering the look on her face when she's asked him to talk dirty to her while she humped his leg to orgasm. He could have sworn blind that he could smell her on him all night, that he could still smell her even now, showered and changed into his loose pyjama trousers and his only t-shirt. He pulled his phone out to find a text from her.

 

_Sansa: Did you get home OK? Some storm!_

He felt somehow warm at her care, hurried to reply as her text had been sent a while ago.

_Petyr: I got home fine, thank you – my apologies, I took a shower when I got home. Are you OK?_

He had to wait quite a while before she answered, he was half-dozing on the sofa when her response came through. He jerked awake when his phone chimed.

 

_Sansa: I'm wonderful. Sorry, we were all in a big family pile watching Die Hard. I'm in bed now._

_Petyr: In bed? And what are you wearing?_

_Sansa: I thought about lying to you and saying it was a negligee or nothing but the truth is..._

A picture message came through, and he laughed aloud. She was pulling an exaggerated sexy face at her reflection in the mirror, and wearing pyjamas that looked very cosy and appeared to have pandas on them.

 

_Petyr: I love them. Cute pandas._

_Sansa: They were my joke Christmas present from Margaery last year. Joke’s on her though, I love them._

_Petyr: I love them too. You look adorable._

_Sansa: Charmer. What are you wearing?_

He tried very hard indeed to not dwell on the fact that he was taking a selfie as he framed a similar shot to hers – without the exaggerated pout.

 

_Sansa: Are you wearing a t-shirt? That's strangely arousing._

He grinned down at his phone.

 

_Petyr: Is there anything I wear that does not arouse you?_

_Sansa: Not thus far. Ego, much?_

_Petyr: An unfortunate side effect of having a beautiful eighteen year old as a girlfriend._

_Sansa: Unfortunate my eye. You should be careful, or your head will swell so much you won't be able to fit through doors._

_Petyr: Don't be cheeky, young lady._

_Sansa: You can punish me later. I'm going to get some sleep. Merry Christmas, Petyr._

_Petyr: I'll hold you to that. Merry Christmas, Sansa._

The next morning, the storm had abated enough to allow Varys to join him for their traditional Christmas lunch. Petyr cooked, Varys washed up and helped prep. It had worked as their routine for some years now, and it worked this year too. When the meal had been cleared away, and they had exchanged gifts – a new silk tie for Varys, and a new tie-pin for Petyr – they sat down to chat over drinks. Varys wasted absolutely no time whatsoever.

                “There's still a gift under the tree, Petyr. Aren't you going to open it?” Petyr swirled the Scotch in his glass for a moment.

                “It's from Sansa,” he said, by way of an answer. He imagined Varys would be raising his eyebrows if he had them to raise.

                “Ah. I do hope it's nothing salacious.” When Petyr made no move himself, Varys stood up with a sigh to retrieve the box. He put it in Petyr's lap and stood waiting. “Open it.” Petyr looked up at him.

                “What's it to you?”

                “Insatiable curiosity. Come along, Petyr, open the box.” He groaned about it, but did as he was told. If it _was_ something salacious, as Varys put it, then he didn't have to show him.

 

It wasn't. Nestled on a bed of deep blue silk, a beautiful glass mockingbird confronted him. He lifted it out almost reverentially, feeling the fragility in his hand. It sat in his palm, tiny, delicate – surprisingly heavy. A note lay beneath it.

 

_Dear Petyr,_

_I saw this and thought of you. The lady said it was a paperweight, but I think it would probably work as just an ornament. If you hate it, feel free to return it – I kept the receipt._

_Love, Sansa._

Love, Sansa. So casually written, two such small words and yet he felt them soak in down to his bones. _Love, Sansa._ Varys was still watching him, distinct amusement clear on his face.

                “Shut up,” Petyr warned, carefully replacing the glass bird in its box.

                “I didn't say anything,” Varys said, all innocence.

                “The expression on your face said enough, thank you.”

                “Well, the expression on _your_ face said quite a lot too.” Petyr shot him a glare that he could only imagine was half-hearted at best. When the smirk all over his friend's face did not waver one scrap, he knew he hadn't even managed half-hearted. The smile was too big to hold back. “So you really do love her then,” Varys mused.

                “Oh for the love of Gods,” Petyr groaned. He slumped back into the sofa and ran a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes.

                “You're an idiot, Petyr.”

                “Thanks,” he growled.

                “Do you know,” Varys said, musingly, “it's not often that I am genuinely glad of my asexuality. But when even you are made to be a fool for love, I celebrate it."

                “You bloody started this,” Petyr said. “You were the one who told me to do the thing properly. I would have been content with a tumble and a goodbye.” Even as he said, he knew it was a blatant lie. Judging by the snort that issued from Varys, he knew it too.

 

Varys did not linger over-long. He stayed for a light Christmas tea, another drink, then insisted upon leaving. The snowstorm had stopped during the night, and while it was lingering in the bitter cold, the roads were largely clear. He had not brought up Sansa again, but as he was pulling on his coat, he addressed the subject again.

                “You rather ought to call her, I think. A Christmas Day declaration of love is rather romantic.”

                “Varys, I do not require advice.”

                “Perhaps not, but I have given it anyway. And honestly, my friend, I wish you the best – and I hope very much that you're happy with her. She's a very special young lady.”

                “I thoroughly agree,” Petyr said drily.

 

And he did. The mockingbird she had given him was beautiful. She had noticed his possessions therefore, noticed the bird appear on his things – and had borne it in mind when choosing his gift. It was not flashy either, just beautifully simple. It would look exactly at home in his office, exactly at home on his desk as a single ornament. She'd obviously considered that too – the delicacy of it ensured its understatement. He could not stop looking at the bird.

 

He'd never really considered love, had never fallen in love. He had simply assumed he wasn't built for such a thing. He had not missed it, had never wanted it particularly. Now, he was wondering how he had ever lived without it, had ever lived without her and her bright smile, her laugh, the sound of her voice as she teased him or just spoke about her life.

 

As he was looking at the clock, wondering if it was acceptable to call her yet – it was 7pm, surely her family day had run its course – his phone rang in his hand.

                “Sansa.” He breathed her name like a prayer, heard her shaky exhale. When she spoke, it sounded like there were tears in her voice.

                “You are an impossible man, Petyr Baelish.”

                “Did you not like my gift?” he asked.

                “Like it?” she choked back. “ _Like_ it? Petyr, it's beautiful. It's the most beautiful thing I ever saw, and I cannot _possibly_ accept it.”

                “Do you want to see something more beautiful?” he asked, sitting back against his sofa cushions.

                “There's _nothing_ more beautiful -" she mumbled.

                “Put it on, and look in the closest mirror,” he said. “That’s the most beautiful thing you ever saw.” The choked laugh was wonderful.

                “Petyr Baelish,” she breathed.

                “Don't cry, Sansa,” he said gently, wanting desperately to hold her, to pull her into his arms and keep her close. “I don't pretend to be an expert, but I don't think you're meant to cry over sapphire necklaces. Rings, maybe.” He could have slapped himself as soon as he said it. There was a little silence, and when she spoke again, her voice was lighter, steadier.

                “It seems wrong to say it now – and I swear it's not because of the necklace. But I think I love you, Petyr Baelish.” His brain exploded.

                “I love you too, Sansa Stark.”

 

By the time they'd both stopped laughing – and by the time she was most _definitely_ the only one to stop crying – and made arrangements for her to come over tomorrow, and said a loaded goodbye, he felt about twenty years younger and like he was full of helium. It was the closest he'd ever come to giddy in his entire life.

 

He rather liked it, if he was honest.

 

He liked it a lot, in fact.

 

One might even be pushed to say that he loved it.


	21. Sansa XI

_Sansa: When can I come by?_

She'd sent the message at half-past ten, considering it reasonable to assume that he'd be up and around by then. He'd replied at just before 11.

 

_Petyr: Now, if you like. I need to go out briefly, so I'll leave a key under the mat. Let yourself in._

_Sansa: See you soon._

It could not have been more perfect. She would be able to slip in, arrange herself and wait patiently for him to return. She did hope the shock wouldn't kill him. That might but a damper on things.

 

Dressing was a careful thing - she'd never worn a corset before, it she had to fidget with it for far longer than she would have liked before she was happy with it. She decided against stockings as being a little too much, pulled regular jeans and a jumper over it all – and added the necklace.

 

The squeak that had escaped her when she'd opened it had got everyone's attention at once. Catelyn had come over immediately, then gasped herself when she'd seen it. The teardrop sapphire would have been heart-stopping by itself, the white gold chain was just – in her opinion – showing off. She'd probably never dare wear the thing, hadn't dared to Google the thing in case she found out the price tag. She'd had to have a very large swallow of wine before she could actually speak – but Catelyn had beaten her to the punch to respond to Ned's increasingly impatient requests for an explanation. _It's nothing, darling – just that Petyr's in love with our daughter._

 

She was as ready as she was ever going to be. She'd already cried off the snowy walk the rest of the family had rambled off on, so at least there was nobody to see her leave and question her unusually clinched-in waist. Gods, this thing was tight. She hoped he would take it off fairly quickly. Sex might be rather a challenge when she could barely bend.

 

His car was gone when she arrived at his place, and it was with shaking fingers that she found the key under the mat and let herself into his house. She could get used to this letting herself in business. He wanted to be careful, doing things like this.

 

She had no way to know when he'd left, or when he would be back, so she acted quickly – drawing his curtains and turning on one lamp and the lights on his tree created more than enough ambient light for her purposes. She stripped down, folded jeans and sweater into her bag before she stowed it neatly in his hall beside her shoes. She liked the idea of him coming in and finding her things neatly placed, like both she and her things belonged in his neat little house. She went into the little bathroom she had used the last time she'd been here, assured herself that her hair wasn't a static mess from the jumper being pulled off, that the necklace was perfectly positioned.

 

Fairly certain that she would hear his car, she spent some of the waiting time wandering his living room. Every other minute, she would remember that she was essentially waiting in her underwear for a man to come and ravish her, and giggle to herself. She felt like she was in an X-rated version of Rapunzel, or Snow White – waiting for her prince to come and find her, just in her lingerie instead of some glorious floor-length gown.

 

She'd stopped in front of his bookcase when she saw it – a little glass mockingbird on the shelf in front of _The Art of War._ He'd put it on his shelf, somewhere obvious, he'd put the tiny gift she'd brought him up for anyone to see.

 

Somehow, it made her want to cry.

 

The crunch of wheels on gravel and an engine made her pull herself together as best as she could, dashing over to the Christmas tree and panicking slightly. If she lay down, as had been a plan of sorts, he wouldn't be able to see her – the sofa was in the way. Standing it was. She had just got herself into a good position –one hand holding the plastic trunk of his tree, coloured lights twinkling next to her skin, the other arm behind her back to maximise the _display_ , when his key sounded in the lock and he came in.

                “Sansa?” Answer, or not? But she didn't need to, he'd obviously seen his darkened living room, because his footsteps were heading in and she could feel a smile bubbling up on her face as he came inside – and stopped dead in his tracks.

 

If she ever had a crisis of self-confidence, this was what she would think of to feel desirable. His face had gone slightly slack, lips parted in surprise – and lust was written all over him. He was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld in his life – and she felt it too. She let go of the tree, took a step forward. She ran her fingertips over her collarbone, down towards the very impressive cleavage the corset had bestowed on her.

                “Sansa,” he said again – except this time it was more like a choke. She smiled at him, full force as her heart sang with triumph. She had him _exactly_ where she wanted him. Her fingertips touched the necklace.

                “Does it suit me, Petyr?” she asked, making her voice as light, as casual as she could, as if she wasn't standing in front of him in the most scandalous underwear she'd ever owned in her life and nothing else.

                “Gods, yes.” He was not looking at the necklace. His gaze was absolutely transfixed on her face.

                “I wanted to give you the second part of your Christmas present,” she said, taking another step towards him, then another. “Don't you want to unwrap it, Petyr?”

                “Holy – you are going to be the death of me.” She just kept advancing. He swallowed, she actually saw his throat move as he did it.

 

Oh, she had him where she wanted him alright – although she had to admit that she had never expected her plan to have this kind of effect on him. This was beyond her wildest dreams. She had the idle thought that if she wanted to, she could probably rob him blind and he would not object in that moment. She'd got within touching distance – and he pounced.

 

She was not prepared at all for his kiss. She had thought he'd reached the heights of passion when he had kissed her in that damn utility room she'd never look at without blushing again. She had been very, very wrong. This kiss ripped the breath out of her lungs, drained the blood from her head and made her so weak she thought she might collapse into his arms. He was urging her somewhere, she was upstairs in the midst of frantic kisses. His shirt was gone, so she'd obviously been busy while her brain had gone on a little holiday.

                “Just so you know,” he growled, directly into her ear, “I had planned on candles and rose petals.” Her heart did a back flip.

                “Next time,” she said. “But I can't wait any bloody longer.”

                “Nor can I, with you looking like that.” She giggled. A door opened and she managed to tear herself away from him to get a good look at his bedroom.

 

Navy blue sheets, white second pillowcases, not a single stray sock to be seen. Bookcases, groaning under their burdens, no TV – not visible anyway. Nightstand, holding lamp, book and – _reading glasses_? Ugh. She wanted to see him in _those._ His hands were back on her shoulders, stroking gently.

                “Does it meet your approval?”

                “Oh,” she said, quite casually. She slipped out from under his hands and approached the bed. She pulled the duvet down, folded it neatly to the end of the bed before she sat down on the edge and smiled at him, straightening her back. “I think this will do, Petyr.” She spread her legs and watched his eyes darken. “Come and unwrap me, Petyr,” she teased.

 

He came over alright, but he did not remove a single article of her clothing, just stood in front of her with that burning heat in his eyes. She admired the view. His shirt was gone, revealing a nicely toned chest and arms. Somebody worked out. There was chest hair too, a fairly decent amount of it. She hooked a finger through a belt loop and pulled him closer. Perfect height, perfect angle. She found him already hard for her under the starch of those neatly-pressed trousers, mouthed him gently through the material.

                “Sansa,” he hissed. She felt his hands wind into her hair and pull her head back slightly. She pouted as she looked up at him. “Pouting again, sweetling?” he asked, smile dark. His thumb touched her lips, and she struck, sucking it into her mouth gently. He groaned. “You are – a very, very naughty girl, sweetling. Coming here, waiting for me all dressed up and looking so unutterably _fuckable._ ”

                “Then fuck me,” she said. She wriggled back, lay herself among his pillows. “Please Petyr. I need you.”

 

It was, apparently, the right thing to say. He was between her legs in a heartbeat, shoes kicked off and pressed against her. She wriggled under him, rubbing herself against him, until his hands pinned her hips to the bed and he shook his head at her.

                “Oh no, Sansa. You have spent _weeks_ tempting me -"

                “A week and a half,” she gasped, accepted his firm kiss when it came.

                “Too long,” he growled. “You're going to lie here, like a good girl, and I am going to take you.”

                “Is that a promise?” she asked, tipping her head back as he ground against her.

                “You're entirely too cheeky,” he reproved. He was sitting back on his knees, running his hands over her bare thighs – skimming, but never quite touching where she wanted him too. She tried pouting, and when he only laughed, she tried growling. He just ignored her completely. Worse, he took his hands off her legs completely – but he was moving down the bed, his hands returning, going to the waistband of the silk panties. “I do love you in silk, sweetling. But I do rather think that this particular piece needs to come off.” She gave him a nod of frantic agreement, and he chuckled as he slid her panties down her legs almost _torturously_ slowly. She craned her head up, saw him slip them into his trouser pocket. “I shall have quite the collection soon.”

                “I expect them back,” she warned. “I happen to – oh my _Gods_.”

 

She had thought his hands were the epitome of talent. It was nothing, _nothing_ compared to his mouth. His hands were holding her open for him, his grip on her thighs probably tight enough to bruise. She couldn't have cared less. He could write his name in bruises if he wanted, as long as he kept doing whatever the _fuck_ he was engaged in doing with his mouth. When he slid his fingers into her too, she thought she might have screamed. This angle was far, far better than it had been on his sofa. He free leg was quivering like a leaf. He was touching something inside her she was damn sure she had never had touched before, something that was sending absolute waves of pure blinding heat through her, washing over her like the sea. Perhaps she was drowning. Or dying. That was absolutely fine by her. What a brilliant way to go.

                “Faster,” she found herself whimpering. “Please Petyr, _faster._ ” She heard his chuckle, thought for a horrible moment that he planned to deny her – but he did not disappoint.

 

She came so hard she thought she might have actually blacked out. He was still between her legs, stroking her gently with his knuckles. Every time he bumped her clit, a vibration of pleasure flew through her, an aftershock of the joy. She was gasping for breath, her legs shaking despite lying down.

                “Petyr,” she gasped. She reached down grabbed his wrist, pulling him up to her so she could kiss him. She never particularly thought she'd enjoy tasting herself on a man's mouth, but it was a heady pleasure to taste herself on his. “Take your damn trousers off,” she said, voice husky. “Now.”

                “Impatient -"

                “ _Petyr_ ,” she whined. He obeyed her, and she put her hands to the front of her corset, intending to unfasten it and throw it aside. His hand flashed out, he shook his head.

                “ _I_ take that off.” She giggled, dropped her hands back to her sides. He got his clothes off almost staggeringly fast.

                “Eager much?” she asked, lounging happily on his pillows. His answer was to lean forward and bite her neck lightly. His hands went to the hooks at the front of her corset – and unhooked her literally hook by hook.

                “One day,” he promised, his tones richer than melted cocoa, “I am going to fuck you whilst you are wearing nothing but this corset and a pair of high heels.”

                “And you call me naughty,” she teased. He lay the corset open, caressed her breasts gently.

                “You are beautiful,” he breathed.

                “Petyr,” she murmured, pulling his head back down to hers. When they broke their kiss, she urged him back between her legs, smiled up at him as she reached down between them. He was so hard he felt like steel under her fingers.

                “Wait –are you -"

                “I'm on the Pill,” she told him. “I – I want our first time to be like this,” she added, smiling at him. “If it's OK.” He nodded.

                “I love you,” he told her. She smiled at him, tiny fireworks going off in in her belly.

                “I love you too.”

 

He slid inside her, and she could have sworn he had literally been designed to do it. He nudged every spot inside her that made her dizzy with pleasure. She wrapped arms and legs around him, pulling him closer on each thrust.

 

It was messy, teeth clashing, nails scratching, shared-breath sex, and it was _amazing_. He never took his eyes off her, his gaze burning into her and making her feel like he could see every damn thought she'd ever had. He even had a hand shoved between then, those clever fingers playing her clit like it was a fucking musical instrument. And boy, was she responding to it.

                “Petyr – I -"

                “Let go, Sansa,” he whispered roughly. “Let me feel you. I want to feel you come for me.”

 

She drew her knees up, changed the angle, felt him slide in just that _fraction_ deeper and came a second time. It always felt strange to come during sex, as she felt herself clamping down and yet still feeling him. He was shuddering in his turn, his teeth clenched as his groans were ripped out of him in a way that sounded like _pain._ The expression on his face told her the truth though, that he was as blinded by pleasure as she was, that he was gasping for breath just as much as she was.

 

He was even considerate enough to roll to the side of her, although he held out his arm at once. She made her shaky way into the embrace, pillowing her head on his shoulder and putting her hand on his chest.

                “You don't have to go anywhere, do you?” she mumbled sleepily.

                “No.”

                “Thank the Gods,” she said. “Because I don't want to go anywhere ever again.” His fingertips had been tracing a pattern on her shoulder, but they stilled now.

                “Then stay,” he answered. “Because I don't see myself ever wanting you to leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter of Christmas Eve!
> 
> The final chapter will be posted in two days time, in keeping with the update schedule. It will be an epilogue, set exactly one year from the events of this chapter. 
> 
> Posting them separately because waaaaaaah, I don't wanna end.


	22. Petyr XI

                “Sansa?” he called, opening his front door. She was obviously already here – her bag was hanging neatly from a coat hook, her shoes on the rack, coat on another hook. There was no sign of her though, and it was with a slight smile that her remembered last Boxing Day, the first one they had spent together. She'd been waiting for him in nothing but a corset and a pair of silky knickers, waiting in his darkened living room to tempt him. Still, he could see his living room from here, and it certainly wasn't darkened today. “Sansa?” he called again.

                “Up here!” she called. Ah-ha, already in his bedroom then. The minx.

 

He climbed the stairs, already loosening his tie and resolving to kiss her senseless as soon as he got his hands on her. Sansa had chosen to go to University in the Vale, and even with him driving down there every other weekend, he hadn't seen nearly enough of her over the last three months. But she had already arranged with her parents that she was spending the rest of her Christmas break at his house, actually _staying_ with him, all his for five entire days. He couldn't bloody wait. He had big plans for Sansa Stark.

 

Except, as it transpired, she had plans for _him._ She was sitting on his bed, hair gloriously loose and long, _see-through black lace_ masquerading as her underwear – with one hand outstretched. From one finger, almost temptingly, dangled a pair of handcuffs. Why was he surprised that they were silver? Had he expected them to be pink and fluffy? Why was it the colour that surprised him, and not the fact that _Sansa was holding handcuffs_?

                “Do you remember the first time we ever had phone sex?” she enquired. That smile she was wearing was dangerous.

                “Yes,” he said, because how in the hells was he ever supposed to forget that?

                “Do you remember what I was thinking about?” She finished with a giggle – an honest to Gods giggle. He could only imagine the expression on his face. He could only imagine it reflected his brain going _hells yes, woman._ “Oh, you _do._   And you finally got a new headboard...” She let her voice trail off invitingly.

 

He had purchased that headboard with the specific intent of doing exactly this, after all. They'd had several goes at her teasing, tormenting, ordering – but he always got impatient. He wouldn't have a choice this time. He'd have to just – he was already taking off his shirt, his jacket already lying abandoned on the floor, and she laughed at him.

                “Eager boy,” she teased.

                “Wicked minx.” She let him get the shirt off before she stood up, giving him a good look at all that pale skin, framed and accented by the black lace. One handcuff clicked securely into place around his wrist.

                “Not too tight?”

                “One more notch.” She clicked it firmly, the metal kissing his skin. His hands went to his belt, but she grabbed them and shook her head.

                “Oh no you don't. On the bed, Petyr.” He obeyed her, lying on his back and wriggling until he got comfortable. He thought she might cuff the free link to the headboard, but oh no. “Hands up.” He couldn’t see what she was doing, but her heard metal scrape against wood, felt the metal cuff close around his other wrist. He smirked at her.

                “Anyone would think you don't trust me,” he said.

                “I don't,” she answered, smiling.

 

She was moving down his body already, trailing her fingertips over his arms, his chest, his stomach.

                “You OK?” she whispered.

                “If I need to stop this, I'll say so,” he told her. “You just carry on.” She smiled, pressed a quick kiss to his lips – pulling back when he tried to deepen it.

                “Naughty,” she reproved. “I'm in charge today.” She was sitting back on her heels now, looking at him. “You look good like this,” she mused. “All cuffed up and at my mercy.” He tried to scowl at her.

                “Are you just planning to talk to me?”

                “I could,” she sassed right back. “You are, quite literally, all tied up right now. I could lie down next to you, get myself off and then go and have a glass of wine while I obsess over _Dexter_ without you bitching about it.”

                “Don't you dare -"

                “You're hardly in a position to make threats Mr Baelish.” She knew what it did to him when she called him that – and looking at her, she really did know it. She was moving though, up on her knees, swinging one long leg over him and straddling his groin. She rubbed herself against him, teasingly, gave a little gasp. “Already, Mr Baelish?”

                “Since I walked in here and saw you holding handcuffs,” he admitted freely, without shame. She looked triumphant.

 

Her torture was long, it was brutal, and it was by far the best forty-five minutes of his entire godsdamned life.

 

She started off by tracing the lines of muscle in his chest and arms, held taut by the handcuffs. Her hands had made their way to his belt eventually, unbuckling it and sliding it out from underneath him with a little snap and a flourish. She'd removed his trousers and boxers with borderline military precision – had fucking _folded_ them, for fuck's sake - and proceeded to smile sweetly as he growled at her. She had drawn one teasing finger up his cock, then withdrawn it, to snake her hand underneath the pillows and pull out that Hitachi wand thing. He'd brought it for her – for them – and the first time he'd introduced it, she had come _four_ times. He still remembered her wails of sheer pleasure. Then she'd come round with a wicked glint in her eye and a web link, and _she'd_ used it on _him_ – and he'd come so hard he'd actually gone momentarily blind.

                “Tell me when you're about to come,” she said, smiling wickedly as she switched the thing on.

 

The smile should have been his warning.

 

He had bent his knees and spread his legs on command, let her wrap her hand around his cock as she pressed the wand to his perineum. Gods, he could fucking feel it like a godsdamned earthquake. The vibrations had been coupled with her hand massaging sure and steady over his cock, regular rhythm, not quite enough to come had she been just doing that, but enough coupled with the vibrations to get him dangerously close dangerously quickly.

                “Sansa,” he choked. “I -" She had not waited for him to finish. The wand was removed, her hand gone, and that dangerous smile was back. He'd groaned in frustration, bucking up into nothing as his hips jerked uselessly to find her again. “You can't be serious,” he'd growled at her.

                “Deadly,” she answered, before she'd removed her knickers, crawled up his body and spread her legs over his face. “Lick my pussy, Petyr,” she'd commanded.

 

And he had. It had made his neck ache a bit, and his hands clenched uselessly as he longed to touch her too, but he had. She tasted sweet, sweet and heady and he had thought for approximately the thousandth time that he would spend every waking hour between her legs if she'd let him and they didn't both have lives to live. She’d remained over him until she was crying out her orgasm, bucking gently against his tongue and lips as she came down off her high. She'd claimed his mouth in a deep kiss immediately, apparently not minding one little bit that she could taste herself.

 

She'd used the wand on him again, of course, once more removed it when his grunts apparently told her something, because the Gods knew _he_ hadn't. She straddled him again, this time skin to skin and he'd tried desperately to thrust up as he'd felt her slick heat against his straining cock. When had she taken off her bra?

                “Do you want to fuck me, Petyr?” she’d asked, all coy voice and fluttering eyelashes.

                “Yes,” and he had _moaned_ it, not caring a damn that he sounded like a bitch in heat. “Please, Sansa, please!” Her hips went still, he had _definitely_ cried out in frustration.

                “Beg,” she had ordered, and when he looked at her, he saw how wide her eyes were, how dark they had been coloured by lust. “Beg me, Petyr.”

 

And he had begged.

                “Sansa please, please, let me fuck you. Gods, sweetling, you're so godsdamned beautiful, I want to fuck you, please!” His answer had been a pretty little giggle, a coy little _if you insist_ and then her hands were back on his cock. She had lowered herself down so slowly he had been genuinely afraid he might die from the pleasure. What a way to go.

 

At least there had been no messing around then. She'd used the wand on herself this time, and just ground herself against him gently. It had been all he needed – her clutching heat as she came with a scream, the vibrations he could fucking _feel_ through her pussy – he’d spent himself inside with a shout that he was fairly damn sure everyone within a mile might hear.

 

She opened the cuffs with trembling fingers, dropped them on the nightstand before collapsing beside him. He rolled his shoulders before making a grab for her.

                “I can absolutely assure you that you will pay for being such a horrible, horrible teasing _witch_ ,” he promised her. “At least, you will when I stop shaking.” A trembling laugh reached his ears from where her face was buried in his neck.

                “Did you – like everything?” she asked him, sounding almost shy.

                “Gods, yes.” Her laugh this time was more confident.

                “You beg so prettily,” she teased.

 

When they both came round enough to get out of bed to seek dinner, he found his now badly crumpled jacket on the floor. Still naked as his name-day, with her pulling on his discarded shirt over her black knickers, he knelt down, clutching the box. She gaped at him.

                “Petyr?”

                “Marry me?” he said, opening the box. “I know it's only been a year – and we can wait until you finish university – but I love you. Marry me?” She was already nodding, he realised, his heart slipping around inside his chest.

                “Yes,” she said. “Oh Petyr, yes!” He got the ring on her finger with hands so shaky he was afraid he might drop the bloody thing. She was staring at him, her eyes sparkling. “Do you remember telling me that people aren't supposed to cry over sapphire necklaces?” He nodded. “Do you remember what you added?”

                “I said: ‘rings, maybe’.”

                “Can I cry now?” she asked. He nodded.

                “Only if they're happy tears.”

                “The happiest,” she promised, met his kiss with her own as he dragged her back into bed.

 

To hell with getting dinner. He was going to love her first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that's the end!
> 
> I want to thank EVERYONE who took the time to leave kudos and comments, and those who bookmarked. I want to thank everyone who just lurked unseen, but loved anyway!
> 
> The reaction has been amazing and I am going to miss this story dearly. 
> 
> HOWEVER - I have really enjoyed writing the light-hearted romp this fic was, and with that in mind, I am announcing that The Smell of Leather, a Gendrya Modern AU, will be launched TONIGHT. I need it to counteract all the drama going down in The Lady of Casterly Rock, my current Jaimsa fic. 
> 
> Those of you who wanna follow me through another happy fic, you are going to be as welcome there as you have been here. 
> 
> I love you all!


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